Skeleton Dance
by MollyMack
Summary: Much against his will, Lord Grantham goes to Dublin for Sybil's wedding to the chauffeur. But Ireland is at war, and Robert Crawley, 7th Earl of Grantham, is the symbol of everything that they are fighting against. Can this possibly end well?
1. Turning the Page

_There comes a time in your life when you have to turn the page, write another book or simply close it. -_ Shannon L. Alder

 _ **Downton Abbey**_

Robert Crawley, 7th Earl of Grantham, Viscount Downton, paced the narrow confines of his dressing room, to which he had been banished since announcing his refusal to attend his daughter's wedding.

"It is simply too much!", he muttered. "How can they expect me to take part in this travesty! What on earth is wrong with them? Have they forgotten who they are?" Up and back, up and back. Eventually he accepted that the pacing was not helping, and threw himself in disgust on the narrow bed that was to be his sleeping arrangement for the foreseeable future.

It was bad enough, he thought, that his youngest daughter, his jewel, had moved away. That the place to which she had moved was Ireland, that miserable blemish on the empire, was a knife in his gut. That the reason Sybil had gone to Ireland was that she was going to marry … he choked on the thought … the family's _chauffeur_ , was beyond comprehension.

Sybil. She had always been different from her sisters - argumentative, challenging, difficult. Kind, compassionate, loving, completely adorable. Champion of the weak and downtrodden. Papa's girl.

Five year old Sybil had been the one to sneak a frog from the pond into her room and wrap it in a blanket because " he looked cold, Papa!" Ten year old Sybil had come home from a visit to Lord Merton's in disgrace because she had punched Larry Grey in the nose when "he said girls are stupid, Papa!" And seventeen year old Sybil had stolen the horse cart to take one of the housemaids to a job interview, coming home covered in mud and completely unrepentant. "I think Gwen has a real chance to be a secretary, Papa!"

He sighed. Should anyone really be surprised that she had become friends with the Irish chauffeur and then fallen in love with him? Branson was just the sort she _would_ seek out - rebellious, political, opinionated. Like her. God! He loathed the man with every fiber of his being.

The new chauffeur had seemed such a bright spark after poor old Taylor. Humble, respectful, the lad's awe of the books in Robert's library had touched him and kindled his pride in the ownership of so much knowledge. Branson's unvarnished gratitude at being offered the right to take books out of that library had stoked the earl's self-esteem, made him feel magnanimous and benevolent. Codswallop! How foolish he felt now. He had been _had_.

"What are your interests?" he had asked sincerely.

"History and politics, mainly,", was the polite response. Hah! He had welcomed a revolutionary into his home, into his family, and he'd never seen the cudgel coming until it had whacked him right in the head. If he had, he'd have run the hooligan out the back door before he ever set foot in Robert's prize Renault…or eyes on his precious daughter.

And the rest of the family! They were a band of traitors, that lot. Mary had known about the growing romance between her baby sister and the chauffeur, and had said nothing! If Mary knew, it was safe to say that Edith knew too, although Mary might just keep her knowledge to herself to spite her sister. Those two had never got on. But Sybil!

She had summoned Branson into the drawing room before dinner, and there he had stood, in his ill-fitting, poor quality suit, glaring arrogantly at the assembly as if he had every right to be there. His daughter had announced, clearly and proudly, that she and that — _servant_ —- had fallen in love and were going to Dublin. Just like that. And all his roaring … he had no idea what he had yelled, but no matter; she wasn't listening.

Cora had at least had the decency to look horrified, begging her daughter not to live with the man without benefit of clergy, but once Sybil had explained that they had a plan, that she would live with his mother until the banns were read and they were properly married, Cora had folded up like an accordion and given up the fight.

It really wasn't Cora's fault, he admitted to himself. Although no one knew it at the time, she had been coming down with Spanish flu and really couldn't be faulted for not being truly present in the moment. And that was another thing. Robert was certain that Cora's illness had been exacerbated by this dreadful announcement, that it had sapped her strength and nearly killed her. Another sin to hold against the Irishman!

But when Cora had recovered, she had watched her daughter smile at Branson, and that was it for her. Her baby was happy. It wasn't what she would have chosen for Sybil, she explained patiently, but anyone could see how happy he made their daughter, and maybe they had simply overlooked who she really was. Besides, Robert had given them his blessing, and Sybil expected them at her wedding. So they were going.

All right, yes, he _had_ given them his blessing, had even shaken Branson's hand. But that had been after he'd tried to talk Sybil out of her mad plan, and then tried to buy the chauffeur off. He was so sure that his checkbook would do the trick; the man was _poor_ , for heaven's sake, and _Irish_ , and he obviously saw a gold mine in the earl's daughter. Robert wondered exactly how long he had been planning this farce. He'd been driving them all around for six years, plenty of time to choose his target and insinuate himself.

But no; that upstart had had the effrontery to act wronged by Robert's more than generous offer, to be offended that he would even suggest such a thing! The man had to know that there was no way he would be able to take care of Sybil on a journalist's pay - no way he could give her what she deserved. It had to be sheer stubbornness that kept him from accepting that check and running happily back to Ireland.

Or…love. Reluctantly, Robert admitted to himself that Branson might actually love Sybil. It would be hard not to, really; everyone loved Sybil. They certainly seemed to care for each other, and if they hadn't been from such different backgrounds, society might have recognized kindred spirits in the two.

But they _were_ from different backgrounds - different _worlds_ , and those worlds were never supposed to meet. He was a servant, she a lady. She would see reason after a few weeks of poverty; the game would cease being fun, the adventure would be over and she would come running back to her rightful place. He would be waiting. And he promised himself that he would try very, _very_ hard to avoid saying "I told you so," although it certainly wouldn't be easy.

He knew he was in the right; they were all deluded. They would see what he saw, eventually, and meanwhile he saw no reason to degrade himself by pretending to accept this ridiculous folly. He would turn the page on this ludicrous episode—close the book and move on with his life. Sybil was well and truly gone.

He pounded his pillow. No! She had broken his heart, and he was _not_ going to that damned wedding!

 _ **Dublin**_

Sybil tossed and turned on the tiny cot in the room she was sharing with Tom's sisters Kathleen and Maire. The cot would have fit four times into her four poster bed back home—actually the entire _room_ would have fit— and it sagged in the middle. Goose quills poked out of the pillow, stabbing her every time she turned her head.

Every noise in the crowded house was magnified by the thin walls and creaky floorboards, and the residual smells of bacon and potatoes seeped into her nostrils. It was as far from her previous life as a sparrow from a peacock…and she had never been happier.

It was not the bed that was keeping Sybil awake. In two weeks she would be a married woman. Mrs. Branson. She lay staring at the ceiling, savoring the name. Sybil Branson. Mrs. Tom Branson. Her lips curved upward, imagining her married self scurrying around their tiny flat, dusting and cleaning, cooking—well, maybe not cooking; her imagination didn't extend that far. She'd have to work on the cooking. She wondered if Tom could cook.

Nurse Branson. Ahh. That one filled her with a warm sense of pride. She conjured a vision of herself appearing for work at a Dublin hospital, ready to save lives. She saw the happy Irish faces around her, thrilled to have the services of a posh English volunteer nurse with two months of training, and snorted. Now _that_ took some imagination!

So far, her efforts to obtain work had hit a wall built of prejudice and distrust, a barricade against those who sounded like her, those who still held Ireland in a grip of iron. She had been unable to get beyond the interview stage at any hospital; as soon as she opened her mouth eyes narrowed, the shutters came down and they stopped listening. Some were polite, others barely civil. None of them were interested in hiring someone so… _English._

Sybil's reception by Tom's family had been mixed. His mother had looked her up and down, had noted her exhaustion and her youth, and then looked beyond and through, sensing her determination and her love for the man…yes, her son was a man now…who stood beside her, his arm wrapped protectively around her waist and his eyes shining with happiness.

Claire Branson still thought them foolish, was afraid that this aristocrat was a goldfish in a shark tank and would swim off home as soon as things got rough, but there was something about Tom's girl that she hadn't expected, some core of strength that had her hoping she was wrong.

Tom had two brothers and three sisters. Bernadette, the eldest and the closest to Tom in age at thirty, was married to Daniel Ryan, a quiet, serious man five years her senior. She was the proud mother of three year old Connor and little Fiona, the youngest of the clan at six months. A fair-minded woman, Bernadette was reserving judgement on this union out of love for her brother, but somehow Sybil still felt she that was failing some sort of test.

Kathleen, Tom's youngest sister, had welcomed Sybil as if she had known her forever. It was not in her nature to dissemble; she found her almost sister-in-law exotic and beautiful and exciting. Tom was her favorite brother. He could do no wrong in her eyes, and when he had left home at twenty-one it had been the tragedy of her ten year old life. Everything about Tom was wonderful to Kathleen, and that just naturally extended to include Sybil.

In the three weeks since she had been here, twenty-two year old Patrick had fallen a bit in love with his brother's fiancée, not surprising as it was he who most resembled Tom in personality. As he was currently out of work himself, it was Patrick who had volunteered to escort Sybil on her so far fruitless job search, he who comforted her after each rejection. Sybil loved him already. Everyone—especially the neighborhood girls—loved Patrick, with his blond hair, dancing blue eyes, and easy manner, and he loved them all back unselfishly.

She was grateful for the support and encouragement of Patrick and Kathleen, because Tom's sister Maire was most assuredly not a member of camp Sybil. She rarely made eye contact and had not spoken more than six words to her future sister-in-law. Those six words had been "Hello, Lady Sybil" and "Goodbye, Lady Sybil", uttered with disdain and more than a touch of contempt. Sybil was determined to win Maire over, but so far she had met with abject failure in that venture. At twenty-one, Maire was a confirmed nationalist—and it wasn't the nation that Sybil had come from, so she was, at least for now, the enemy.

Sybil had yet to meet Michael, four years Tom's junior. No one spoke much about Michael; when she had asked about him at dinner all conversation had stopped for a moment, and then she was told, "he doesn't come home much". Tom had shaken his head imperceptibly at her as if to signal that Michael was a taboo subject. When she had questioned him later all he had said was that his brother was bitter and angry, and that he would come around when he was ready.

How different the Bransons were from her family! Everything they thought was voiced, nothing held back. Dinners were vociferous affairs, with several conversations going on at once and arguments erupting over such things as the food at Murphy's pub around the corner, the vile behavior of the local constabulary, and Patrick's dating life. Apparently this last was quite healthy, a revolving door of wide-eyed young women who did not seem at all concerned about his lack of money.

Maire and Tom argued politics incessantly. She felt that he was selling out by not writing more impassioned articles supporting home rule; he reminded her that he was a socialist, not a revolutionary, and that the republic would only be realized if cooler heads prevailed. It did not help if Ireland continued to be at war with herself, he pressed, at which sentiment his sister snorted in disgust. The love was there, however, beneath the exasperation, and even Sybil could see it—sometimes.

She giggled as she lay in her tiny cot, visualizing her own family at the Bransons' dinner table. Downton dinners were quiet affairs, always polite on the surface even if the layers beneath might roil with intrigue. If they were here, Mary would roll her eyes at the noise, Edith would probably pout, feeling left out as usual, Mama would pretend to listen to everybody while contributing little, and Papa…

Papa would be horrified. He would say nothing demeaning, he was too well-bred for that, but he would sit bolt upright, oozing disapproval from every pore. He would not sneer, at least not conspicuously, but the sneer would be there under his polite facade, and apparent to all.

Papa would not even try to fit in, because he had no desire to get to know these people who were so alien to his way of life. He had fought this marriage from the moment they had announced their intention, and Sybil could not envision a world in which that would ever change.

But she held fast to the memory of the blessing her father had bestowed on their union before they had left Downton. He had hugged her, had shaken Tom's hand. Surely that was a sign that he was beginning to accept her choice! Once he came to know Tom, _really_ know him, he would see what she saw.

Sybil knew that her father loved her to distraction; she was confident that whatever misgivings he might have, her papa would _never_ miss walking his youngest daughter down the aisle. Secure in that comforting thought, the future Mrs. Branson drifted off to sleep.

* * *

A/N: Here's a pronunciation guide for the Irish names in this story (because I can't stand not knowing how to pronounce names I'm reading!)

Cian - key + in

Eamon - aim + an

Eoghan - o + in

Maire - my + ra

Sinaid - shin + aid


	2. What it Means

Beware: I will be using a local pub as a gathering place in this story. I know, I know, history tells us that women were not allowed in pubs in the early twentieth century, but sometimes history is no fun, and I need them to be there, so please forgive me.

…

 _One day you will do things for me that you hate. That is what it means to be family. -_ Jonathan Safran Foer

 _ **Dublin**_

"I, Michael Branson, do solemnly swear that I do not and shall not yield a voluntary support to any pretended Government, authority or power within Ireland hostile and inimical thereto, and I do further swear that to the best of my knowledge and ability I will support and defend the Irish Republic and the Government of the Irish Republic, which is Dáil Éireann, against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same, and that I take this obligation freely without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion, so help me, God."

Michael glanced around at the small assembly with pride. He had done it; he was an official soldier in the Irish Volunteers. He felt older, taller, _braver_ , than he had a few minutes ago. The anger and bitterness that had smoldered in his heart since the death of his cousin Eamon during the Easter Rising three years ago was still there, still burning, but now it was channeled.

He had a purpose; he was no longer alone in his hatred of the oppressor. He belonged to something bigger than himself; these men were family. They were beginning to call themselves the Irish Republican Army now…a good, hopeful name.

Scanning the room, he found the face he had been hoping for. Eyes shining with pride, his sister Maire beamed radiantly back at him. He had known she'd be there, knew that she would not let him down, would keep his secret. She was the only one in his family he could really trust, the only one privileged to know of his new station.

That was because she felt the way he did about Ireland, about independence. She was desperate to join Cumann na mBan, the Irishwomen's Council, and take up arms for her country, and Michael knew it would not be possible to hold her back for much longer.

But where he felt that, at twenty-five, he himself was more than ready to take on this life, somehow he was frightened to death when it came to the thought of his twenty-one year old sister putting her life on the line. Curious, that, and probably not fair, but there it was.

Maire thrust her way through until she reached her brother, hugging him fiercely.

"Well, big brother, how does it feel?"

He smiled at her, a tight, tense smile devoid of humor. "It feels good. It feels as if I am finally really doing something for Eamon, for Ireland."

She nodded seriously. The two Branson siblings hugged again, and then stepped away from each other. A silence fell between them.

"What is it?" asked Michael.

"Tom's back," his sister said suddenly. "He's been home for three weeks."

Michael's eyes lit up. "Yeah? Big brother's decided to leave those aristocrat bastards and come back where he belongs?"

Maire said nothing.

"What?", said Michael.

"He's not alone", she said simply. "He brought a girl".

"Well, it's about time!", her brother exclaimed. "Thought he'd never settle—"

He stopped suddenly and looked at her. "Brought a girl…from England?"

Maire looked at him, her eyes dark and unreadable. "The daughter of his employer. Her father's an earl."

 _ **Downton Abbey**_

Lady Mary Crawley stared at her father.

"You have to go", she stated emphatically. "It's Sybil."

"It's not that simple", Robert stated, stubbornly. They had been over this ground innumerable times in the last month, and sometimes he felt that he was caught in a never-ending spiral. "I can't abide watching that man steal my daughter from me! I won't!"

"I don't like it any better than you do, Papa," Mary said in exasperation. "But it's Sybil!"

"You gave them your blessing, Papa,", Edith chimed in. "Sybil expects her father there. Who will walk her down the aisle?"

"Grrr," said Robert. "Do you not understand? Sybil has done the unthinkable! She's ruined her life and put us in an impossible position! How will we explain this?"

"That really does not matter now, does it, Papa? She's marrying him anyway," Mary sighed. "What good does it do to abandon her? She loves him. Surely you can get through this for her sake!"

"No!" The Earl of Grantham roared, face red. "She made her decision! How can she expect us to show up in Ireland, for God's sake? They hate us! It wouldn't even be safe!"

"But you're not forbidding us to go," Mary said calmly. "And Mama is going." Your argument does not hold water, Papa."

Robert Crawley clenched his fists, turned on his heel, and left the room.

 _ **Dublin**_

Tom and Sybil walked arm in arm down the street, oblivious to everything around them. Tom felt sometimes as though his face should be aching; he had been grinning like an idiot ever since their arrival in Ireland.

She was here right beside him, in Dublin. It was like a dream. Lady Sybil Crawley, daughter of the Earl of Grantham, was marrying him, plain Tom Branson, son of an Irish mill worker. He had waited six years for her to make up her mind, and here she was. In two weeks she would walk down the aisle of St. Kevin's Church and become Mrs. Tom Branson.

"What are you thinking?", came her soft, husky voice. God, he loved her voice.

"Pinch me," he said.

"What?"

"On second thought, don't. I don't want to wake up and find that this has all been a dream."

She reached up, pulled his head down, and kissed him. "If it is a dream, then I'm glad we're both in it together," she whispered.

"Let's have lunch at the pub," he said, when he could breathe again. "I only have an hour away from the paper, and I want to show you off."

She giggled. "I've never been to a pub. Can I have a whiskey?"

"Let's start with beer. Mam'll kill me if I bring you home drunk!"

They found a table near the back of Murphy's, an ancient tavern where everyone knew everyone else. Colum Murphy, owner and barman, had been serving various Bransons for years and was considered practically family. He knew what they needed, and when to kick them out. Colum's eyebrows lifted appreciatively when he saw Sybil. That Tommy had sure snagged a looker!

Introductions made, Tom ordered two glasses of Guinness. Sybil took a tentative sip, screwed up her face, and then took another.

"Not bad," she lied.

He laughed at her. "You can't live in Dublin and not drink Guinness, you know."

She took a big gulp. "I can learn," she announced bravely.

Tom leaned over and kissed the foam off her lips. When he looked up, his brother Michael was glaring at him from across the room.

 _ **Downton Abbey**_

Lord Grantham felt the world pressing in on him. He absolutely did not want to spend another night in his dressing room; he missed Cora, and he missed his bed. He also had a sinking feeling that he was losing this battle, and he could not let that happen.

He was nothing if not stubborn, although he rather preferred the term tenacious. After all, rectitude in the face of wrong-headedness was the hallmark of the aristocracy. On the other hand, the bed in his dressing room was _very_ small.

He walked tentatively into the huge bedroom he normally shared with his wife. She looked rather coldly at him.

"Yes?"

"I was wondering…" he began.

"Have you changed your mind about Sybil's wedding?", Cora asked him in a deceptively sweet voice.

Robert muttered under his breath, turned on his heel, and stumped his way back to his dressing room. There were simply some things to which a man could not yield, even for a comfortable bed!

 _ **Dublin**_

Michael Branson, after one searing look in his brother's direction, turned and stalked out of the pub.

"Just a minute, darling,", Tom said as he jumped up. "I'll be right back. Just someone I have to see." And he was gone.

"Michael! What the hell!"

His brother turned on the sidewalk and pierced Tom with his glare.

"What?" he spat. "What do you want?"

"Michael, what's wrong with you?! I haven't seen you in six years; is it so unlikely that I'd maybe miss you?"

His brother curled his lip and hissed out his reply. "I don't talk to _traitors_!" He turned to walk away, but Tom grabbed his arm and swung him around.

"Listen to yourself, Michael! What's the matter with you? I'm your brother, for God's sake!"

"No brother of mine! No brother of mine would sell himself to the British, bring one of them into the family!" Michael's words were acid thrown into Tom's face. "No brother of mine would forget where he came from, would sink that low! I thought Maire must've been wrong, but she wasn't, was she?" Michael's voice was choked with emotion, but he forged on. "You brought an English whore back with you, you bastard! You brought—"

Whatever Michael might have said next was lost as Tom's fist connected with his jaw, snapping his head back with an audible thud.

"Don't you ever call her that again!," he snarled. "Whatever you think of me, don't you dare ever say that about Sybil!"

"I'll call her what she is!" Michael shouted, and swung at his brother. Tom doubled over with a loud 'whoof' as a punch was landed to his stomach. He ducked away and came up with his hands in a boxer's stance.

"Stop it! Stop it, both of you!", shouted an indignant voice.

The irate tone arrested them both mid-punch. They turned to see Sybil, standing tall, hands fisted on hips, breathing hard. Her eyes threw sparks and her expression radiated fury. Christ, thought Tom, staring. She looked like a Valkyrie, come out of Norse mythology to arbitrate a battle and choose who would live and who would die. Standing in the middle of a Dublin sidewalk, totally out of her natural element, she was magnificent.

"What is wrong with you two?" She demanded. "Battling in the street like unruly children! Come back in here and settle this like real men with brains!" She did not wait for an answer, merely turned her back on them and sailed majestically back into the pub without waiting to see if they would follow.

The Branson brothers looked at each other, and followed.

 _ **Downton Abbey**_

Cora finished laying out the clothing she would need in Dublin. In truth, she did not know _what_ she would need, beyond her dress for the wedding. They would be staying at the Shelbourne, that venerable landmark that had been an iconic part of Irish gentility since its inception in 1824, but she did not know what events Sybil might have planned for them, or what one should wear to meet an Irish working class family.

In truth, Cora would have preferred not to go to this wedding at all. She was aware that her family would stand out like unicorns in a field of horses. Everything would be so different, so strained.

Branson's—Tom's—family was bound to be on edge around them. She knew nothing about his people, realized with chagrin that she had never asked Sybil about her fiancé's family. There would be a lot of them; she was sure of that much. They were Irish, after all, and catholic. Oh, dear, she sounded so intolerant, so bigoted! She shook herself mentally.

Mary wandered in. "I guess I'm ready." She sighed. "I miss Sybil terribly, and I know this visit will be the last for a long time, but I am not looking forward to the mingling." She hesitated. "Has Papa changed his mind?"

Cora slanted a look at her. "Have you met your father?" she countered dryly. Changing the subject, she asked, "Is Edith ready? The train leaves at ten tomorrow morning; we'll need to have the trunks ready to be taken down early."

Mary said tartly, "Edith has been ready for days. What else does she have to look forward to?" She dismissed the topic of her sister, moving back into a subject which she found entirely more appealing—her own concerns.

"I'm a little nervous about meeting Branson's family. I mean, he seems housebroken, but what about the rest of them? And if they're poor, the house is bound to be small. However will we all fit? And what if I can't stomach the food?"

"We'll be eating civilized food at the Shelbourne, dear," Cora replied. "I think you can manage to comport yourself at the Branson home for the little while we'll be there." She was suddenly rather glad that Robert wasn't going. Mary and Edith would be enough to deal with without worrying about his attitude too.

Early the next morning the three women watched as footmen loaded up the trunks that they would need for two weeks in Dublin. Ladies' maids O'Brien and Anna were going, of course, and their smaller bags were duly loaded into the second motor car.

As they stood in the grand foyer, Cora couldn't remember another journey that had been met with such trepidation. Oh, well, she thought with a sigh. It's Sybil. This is what it means to be family. Unto the breach!

They turned in unison as Bates, Lord Grantham's valet, came into the foyer, followed by two hall boys who were attempting to wrangle a large trunk, and finally by the earl himself. The women stared, speechless.

"What?" said Robert. "It's Sybil." His chin went up. "And anyway, I gave them my blessing." He glared at his women, daring anyone to comment, marched out the front door and climbed into the motor without a backward glance.

Cora looked sideways at her daughters. "Oh my," she said weakly.


	3. For Better or Worse

_Families are messy. Sometimes the best we can do is to remind each other that we're related for better or for worse...and try to keep the maiming and killing to a minimum._

 _-_ Rick Riordan

 _ **Dublin**_

 **Saturday, June 7**

Sybil held the cold cloth to Michael Branson's jaw, frowning at her fiancé across the small table.

"Whatever were you thinking, Tom? He's your brother!"

Tom flushed. "He called you a…he called you…uh…"

"He called me an English whore," she said calmly. "I was there. I _am_ English, and as _you_ know quite well that I am not a wanton woman, I cannot understand the reason you would feel it necessary to punch your own brother in the street on my behalf!"

She turned to glare at Michael. "Even if he is pig-headed, prejudiced and totally wrong about me!", she finished with a touch of disdain in her tone. Michael grimaced but wisely said nothing.

"So,"she said sweetly, extending her hand to her future brother-in-law. "I'm Sybil. I am English, as you have so kindly pointed out, and I am marrying the man I love, who just happens to be Irish and your brother. I am very pleased to meet you." She had thrown down the gauntlet; it was his to pick up or not.

Michael took her hand gingerly, as if it were a feral creature that might bite him at any moment. He shook the hand weakly, then snatched his own back and resumed his sullen scowl.

The middle Branson brother was a combination of the other two, thought Sybil. With his dark blond hair and blue eyes, he could have been mistaken for Patrick, were it not for the glowering expression and narrowed eyes. She assumed that he would also have the signature disarming grin if he ever allowed himself to smile.

"Do you have something to say to my fiancée?", Tom said dangerously.

His brother muttered "I'm sorry for what I said," in a voice that sounded somewhat less than sorry. Sybil pretended not to notice.

"How does your face feel?" she inquired solicitously. "You'll need to put ice on it soon, to take down the swelling. I rather doubt you'll need to seek medical assistance. Your brother was rather kind to you, actually. He is very strong." She beamed at Tom. The brothers glared at each other again.

"Sybil is a nurse," Tom offered. "A good one. She worked in the hospital in her village during the war, saving lives and patching up all sorts of injuries." He was making small talk, knew his brother didn't give a fig for what Sybil did or where she worked, but it kept Tom from hitting him again, and that was good for something, wasn't it?

At that moment he noticed two men just coming into the pub, and his newsman's senses prickled. Somewhere in their early thirties, dressed in dockworkers' clothes and flat caps pulled low, they looked like everyone else in the pub—but these men carried themselves with an arrogance, a _difference_ , that did not belong in this environment, as they headed for the bar.

They didn't look familiar, but he had only been back in his home city for three weeks and very likely wouldn't have known them. They looked like a hundred other men, but there was something off about them. They didn't _fit_.

Tom trusted his instincts, and these two bothered him; he didn't know why. These were dangerous times. He caught Colum's eye, raised his eyebrows. Colum shook his head imperceptibly.

"Michael, have you ever seen those two at the bar before?" he asked softly.

His brother turned to look, and suddenly the color leeched from the unbruised side of his face.

"No, don't think so. Um…I have to go…forgot, have to be somewhere…we'll talk later!" He slid from the table and blended into the crowd, disappearing from sight almost instantly.

"What just happened?" asked Sybil. "I don't think I was the reason for that."

"No", Tom said quietly, looking worried. "But I sure as hell would like to know what he's afraid of."

* * *

Michael Branson did not dare run. Not in Dublin, in broad daylight. Running was a sure fire way to get noticed by the wrong people. If you were noticed by the Royal Irish Constabulary you could get hauled in for questioning. If you were noticed by the Ulster boys, it could be fatal.

He had recognized the two in the pub immediately. They had been hanging outside a meeting of the Volunteers two weeks ago, and he had noticed them because they didn't belong; it was supposed to be a secret meeting, and he knew everyone who should be there.

He might not have picked them up if his instincts hadn't been sharpened by weeks of avoiding his family, but there it was. He was not ashamed of what he was doing, just the opposite, but life in the IRA was dangerous, and with Tom gone he was the oldest son. He was the only one who really knew how bad it was.

Mam would kill him if she knew the company he kept, and what he did for the cause. It was why he stayed away, even though it hurt them. He could never explain, but he did it for her. For them. For Eamon's memory. So he stayed in the shadows, and kept watch on his mother, brother, and sisters. He sometimes felt as if he was invisible, and it nearly broke his heart.

The second time he had seen the men, one night last week, he had followed them as they took a serpentine route down alleys and through the worst part of town. They stopped finally before a building that had once been a pub but was now closed, its sign hanging off one hook and its windows so dirty that even in daylight it would be impossible to see inside.

He watched as each man held up his right hand, fingers pointing skyward, thumb pressed closely to the side of the palm, and then entered the building.

Most of the gas lamps in this part of town were out, but moonlight lit the street and threatened to expose him. Michael found a shadowed doorway and flattened himself against the wall. He watched as more men arrived, singly or in pairs, and disappeared into the abandoned pub. In all, he counted ten.

They stayed for only thirty minutes, and then left the building in the same curious fashion, one or two at a time. As they left, each man again held up his right hand in the strange salute, before walking away into the darkness of the Dublin night.

When the pair he had followed came out of the pub, he prepared to continue the hunt, but as he stepped out of his hiding place his foot slipped and kicked a loose pebble into the gutter. The sound it made was tiny, but enough to be heard across the road by those with senses attuned to danger. Instantly the men's heads snapped up and there he was, frozen in place twenty yards from them, outlined in the glow of the moonlight that had betrayed him. Shite!

Michael hesitated a fraction of a second, and then ran as if the hounds of Hell were pursuing him—perhaps they were. He knew the streets of Dublin like his face in the mirror, and it was what saved him.

In the dark he quickly lost the two Ulster men…for that was what they were. Michael Branson had recognized the hand signal he had witnessed—the sign of the Red Right Hand. And he was sure they had seen his face. His blood ran cold and an icy finger crept up his spine.

Although the IRA had posted men near the abandoned pub every night for a week after, it remained empty, derelict. The men from Ulster would not return; they had found a new meeting place. But something at least had come of Michael's adventure; the republicans knew that there were at least ten of them, and that they were planning something—something that did not bode well for the republic. But what?

And now there were the two he had followed in his own neighborhood pub, mixing in with the lunchtime crowd! He knew instinctively that they were looking for him, and what they would do if they found him. It was thanks to the crowd that he had gotten out without being seen, but just barely. Worse, he had raised the suspicions of his brother Tom…the news hound. What a fiasco!

* * *

 **Monday, June 9**

Robert Crawley sat in the exquisitely appointed lounge of the Shelbourne Hotel, reflecting. Cora and the girls had become tired of his constant muttering and grumbling and had taken themselves off to the hotel shops, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

He gazed around the luxurious space and admitted that coming to Dublin had perhaps not been so awful after all. Tea was served at the appropriate time, the cuisine was elaborate and more than palatable, and the rooms were grandiose and extravagantly furnished. Not Downton, of course, but quite pleasant, nonetheless.

Even the accents heard in the great hall and dining room were a happy surprise, which was to say not too Irish. Now, if he could just stay right here for the duration of the visit, this wedding trip might be termed a success.

That, of course, was not possible. The wedding was taking place at St. Kevin's _Catholic_ Church to start with, which meant bowing and scraping and incense, and the rest of the pagan folderol that went along with it. Chanting, and kneeling, and…oh Lord, what had he been thinking? He felt a headache coming on.

The wedding party was being held in a _pub_. All that noise, and beer, and loud music, people crushed together—and quite a lot of them Irish people named Branson! He allowed his mind to wander longingly to his quiet library back home, which did not help because those thoughts led to others, to memories of the brazen young man who had invaded first that library and then the very sanctity of his family, stealing away his darling daughter. He didn't think he could bear it!

But he would bear it, he knew. He had no choice, although the whole business was abhorrent to him. Robert Crawley was in essence a fair man, a man who cherished his family, his country, and his home. He loved being the caretaker of a great estate and was infinitely proud to be an English earl.

He had considered his lifestyle and heritage to be under attack when Sybil had decided to marry the chauffeur. He had felt threatened, sensed the end of an era in this forbidden relationship. He was very slowly coming to the realization that he had made it all about _himself._

And that was not Sybil's fault; it was not really even Branson's fault, if he were honest with himself. They had fallen in love with each other. It was that simple. It should not have happened, and had they been any other two people it never would have happened, but they were who they were.

For better or for worse…and it would probably be worse, he mused glumly, they had built a friendship which had grown into a deep love, in the most impossible circumstances.

It had been so different for Cora and him; he had married her for her money and she had married him for a title. That was the way it was done. That they had eventually fallen in love with each other was inconsequential, serendipitous.

He could not even imagine having the freedom to love without strings, to find someone who meant more than all the trappings of the aristocracy and to claim immunity from cultural mores and constraints. That was what Sybil had done, and something in his heart responded reluctantly to her courage and resilience.

He shook his head. Well. She would need all of that courage to forge a life as alien to her upbringing as the one that she had chosen, but who was he to deny her the chance to do so? Was he so wise, so all knowing?

Grudgingly he admitted to himself that Cora might have been right — in their insistence on fitting their offspring into preordained molds, perhaps they had never noticed who Sybil really was.

Robert sighed. He supposed he would have to notice now. He would have to learn to accept her choices…and that included Branson and his whole damned, huge, Irish tribe. Like rabbits, these people, he thought uncharitably, and stopped himself with an effort. Well, no one had said it would be easy, but he would try tomorrow night, give it a chance.

They had been invited to dinner at the Branson home, and although it would take all the forbearance he possessed, Lord Grantham would do his best to act pleased…for Sybil. He might even shake Branson's hand again. Or maybe that could wait a while longer. Strength had its limits, after all.

* * *

The man in the flat cap walked through the streets of Dublin, keeping to the shadows. He was surrounded by countrymen, and yet he knew he was alone.

He looked like them; ruddy, fair skin with a sprinkle of freckles across the nose, piercing blue eyes peering out from beneath the ubiquitous cap, shabby trousers, scuffed work boots. An ordinary Irish working man, going about his business.

But a rough cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up exposed just the barest edge of a tattoo which, if seen in its entirety, would have revealed the symbol of a red right hand. The man in the flat cap was careful not to let the tattoo show here; it would betray his origins and very likely get him killed.

No, these were not his people, and this was not his country. Cian O'Neill could trace his lineage back to the Norman Conquest, when the O'Neills of Ulster had styled themselves the High Kings of Ireland and ruled with impunity for centuries. He was better than this Dublin scum who thought that a unified Ireland meant a parliament run by Catholics in the south.

The Irish Volunteers, now calling themselves the Irish Republican Army, were nothing better than papist thugs and vigilantes, thought O'Neill. They had been fomenting violence in Northern Ireland for months, since they had declared independence from Britain. The threat had to be answered, and he had been proud to be selected by the Ulster Volunteer Force to lead a crew bent on teaching these republicans a lesson.

Cian and his cousin Eoghan MacAlister were part of a militia group of ten who had been given orders to come to Dublin and use whatever means they found to humiliate, terrorize and ultimately break the IRA. They were not above using physical violence, even murder, to achieve their objective; after all, they were in enemy territory, and this was war.

The locals he had seen so far had not impressed him. He and Eoghan had blended into the neighborhood easily—it helped to look like everyone else. These people were weak, living their pitiful little lives in the shadow of war and never realizing that the enemy was already at the door.

There had been only that one ripple in the pond a few days ago, one fool who had become a bit too curious—but he would be found and taken care of quickly, and then they would make their move. This was going to be easier than he had thought! He was almost disappointed.


	4. The Fate Of The World

_The fate of the world may depend on whether or not you can bring yourself to visit your relatives_. - Derek Landy

Tuesday, June 10

 **10:00 AM**

Mary opened the door to her suite at the Shelbourne, and Sybil nearly fell in on top of her.

"Mary!", she cried, throwing her arms around her big sister. "I've missed you so! How was the trip? Was the sea choppy? Did you get seasick? Isn't this place grand? Where's your dress for the wedding? When—?"

"Whoa, baby, slow down!" Mary laughed. Some things never changed, no matter the time or miles between. There was something so constant, so irrepressible, about Sybil. She realized that her youngest sister had been their anchor, and that they had been drifting without her.

"Where's Edith? Sybil pretended not to notice the tears in her sister's eyes. "Let's get her in here. I want to have my favorite people together in the same room again!"

"Well, then, shouldn't someone call Branson?" Mary said archly. "I assume he's your favorite person now. Or is the bloom off the rose already?"

Sybil blushed. "Oh, Mary, a fiancé is not the same thing as a sister! And of course he's my favorite person!" She sighed. "He's almost perfect, you know that! And it's _Tom_."

Mary did not know that. She was a very long way from ever admitting anything close to perfection in Branson. She sighed. She supposed she had been holding out hope that Sybil would have tired of this new adventure already and be ready to come home, but the look in her sister's eyes when she said his name told her that it was a lost cause. The chauffeur had won.

When Edith arrived in Mary's room, Sybil's joy in the reunion was enough to unite the three of them in a very rare camaraderie. Mary and Edith knew it wouldn't last, at least not for the two of them, but for now they felt a need to put aside their usual petty grievances, to embrace the love that bound them as family. Sybil had left only three weeks ago, yet it seemed so much longer.

Odd, that. They had all been apart for much longer before; why was this so different? Perhaps it was because Sybil was really gone now. In the past, their separations had been temporary; eventually they all came home to Downton. From now on, Downton for Sybil would be the place to visit; home would be across an ocean in another country. This was going to be hard.

"So, darling, how is Dublin? Are you Irish yet?" Edith teased playfully to lighten the mood.

Sybil's face fell.

"What is it? What's wrong?" demanded Mary. She felt a spike of alarm at the sudden look of sadness on her sister's face.

"It's nothing…it's fine," Sybil began, and then her eyes welled with tears and she broke down.

"They hate me!", she sobbed. "They hate everything about me! My voice, my country, my manners, my posture…I think they would be happier if I were a slouching mute who ate with her hands!" She blubbered. "Tom is wonderful, of course, and some of his family are so nice to me, but some of them are like blocks of ice.

"They don't dare be mean to me because his mother would kill them, and because they love Tom, but they don't trust me, and I don't know how to make them trust me! I can't get a job, and I so wanted to be a nurse, and I don't know what to do!"

Mary and Edith were staring at her, looking as though they would like to go out into the street and set fire to anyone who would make their sister cry. How could these…foreigners…not see what a gift they had been given in Sybil? Her family had been so busy not accepting Branson that it had never occurred to them that his people might not accept her!

Sybil was making an effort to pull herself together. "I'm sorry, I-I don't usually fall apart like that. It's really not so bad; I think I just saved it all up for you." She decided that it was probably not a good idea to tell them that Tom's brother had called her a whore; the thunderclouds gathering on her sisters' faces warned her that they might very well hunt him down and finish the job Tom had started.

She sighed. And all these people would be together tonight, squished into the Branson home, choking down what would normally be a very good dinner and staring daggers at each other across the scarred table. She looked at her sisters in sudden panic.

"And please…please…don't tell Papa about this!"

Mary and Edith looked at each other in horror. "Absolutely not!" they said in unison.

 **4:00 PM**

"But why do you have to go home so early? I never see enough of you!"

"I told you, Maureen, darlin'," said Patrick patiently. "My brother's fiancée's family is coming to dinner, and we all have to be there."

"Oh, the posh English one? Well, la de dah, I certainly can't compete with that!", Maureen said snidely. "Better hurry, then!" She turned and huffed off, a bit annoyed that he didn't try to stop her.

As he headed home, Patrick sighed. The truth was, he was becoming a bit tired of Maureen and her whining. Why were women so clingy and demanding, he wondered. No matter how much time you spent with them, it wasn't enough.

He wanted to have a bit of fun, that was all. But sooner or later, they'd all start talking about the future, which meant marriage and babies. What were they thinking? He didn't even have a job; how the hell could he think about a family? And he was only twenty-two! He wasn't in it for the long haul. When it wasn't fun anymore, it was time to move on.

Why couldn't the women he met be more like Sybil? He saw how she was with his brother Tom…they were like partners, best friends. She didn't pester him or carp about how much time they had together. They talked about important things, about what was happening in the world. She wanted to be useful, wanted to be a nurse and help people. None of the girls he knew had plans like that.

Of course, it could be worse, Patrick thought. At least the girls he went out with weren't crazy like his sister Maire. She was a bit over the top for sure, with her republican pride and her prickliness. Ireland this, home rule and all that! He got it, that stuff was important, but did she have to go on about it all the time? She wasn't very nice to Sybil, either. Huge black mark, right there.

Patrick realized that all the girls he knew fell into two categories: those who were like Sybil, and those who were not. Unfortunately, there were currently none in the first category, and unless he found someone who came up to the standard of his future sister-in-law, he would still be single when he was eighty. Right now that was just fine with him. He would probably end up a monk, at this rate! He chuckled at that. A monk! Right. Not very likely.

He was so immersed in his thoughts that he nearly ran into the man walking ahead of him.

"Uh, sorry," he mumbled, as he slowed and moved to the side to pass by. But the man stepped in front of him again, forcing him to stop. Suddenly he was aware of others, behind and to the sides, ringing him in, and Patrick realized with a clutch of fear that, except for these men, the street was empty.

In the next instant, he was seized by the arms and hustled roughly into an alley. What the hell? In the midst of his growing fear, Patrick laughed to himself. Were they thinking of _robbing_ him? Well, the joke was on them, then! They'd picked the wrong buck for sure!

The fist that hammered into his face told him chillingly that this might not be about robbery. The first blow was followed immediately by another and he heard a sickening crunch as his nose exploded in a geyser of blood.

Through a veil of agony he saw the hatred in their faces, thought with disbelief, they're going to kill me! Suddenly they were all over him, battering him to the ground, kicking him in the head, the body. He had never known such pain was possible.

Patrick curled up in a vain attempt to protect his ribs and his stomach, but these people were experts. They said nothing, just went about the business of breaking down his body, destroying him. He was going to die, and he didn't even know why. A heavy boot connected with his temple, and he went mercifully off into darkness.

 **7:00 PM**

The Branson clan gathered at the front door of the little house as the car from the Shelbourne pulled up. His family were all watching for the occupants of the motor, but Tom was watching Sybil.

Her eyes shining, she waited for her family, the people she had left to be with him. He knew in his heart that she loved him, that this was the life she wanted, but he still didn't understand it, so he couldn't help the frisson of fear that went through him as the Crawleys approached, looking very much like royalty making a humanitarian visit to their lesser subjects. Standing out against the shabby, worn background of a Dublin neighborhood, they were glorious, and for just a second he hated them.

Then, just before they reached the house, Sybil turned to look at him, and the love in those beautiful eyes told him everything he needed to know. She had made her decision, and it had been him and the life he offered. It still was; she had no regrets. A feeling of euphoria swept through him and he felt that, whatever this evening might throw at him, he could handle it.

Mary, of course, was the first to the door. She had spent the day with Sybil, and in any case would never reduce herself to a show of emotion, but seeing her sister in this place, where she was living, was difficult. She gave her a quick hug, which Sybil returned by squeezing her sister as if it had been years, rather than hours, since they had met.

Mary sighed, and glanced across at her almost brother-in-law.

"Hello, Br—Tom," she said coolly.

He nodded to her. "Mary."

An older woman stepped out from behind Sybil. This must be Mrs. Branson, thought Mary. A sturdy, rather short person, she stood taller and carried herself with a dignity that belied her stature and her circumstances. There was no doubt as to who was in charge here.

Her chestnut hair, liberally salted with white, was worn in a simple bun, and a single strand of very small pearls lay against the breast of her grey wool dress. It was no doubt her best.

Mrs. Branson wore her life on her face, and Mary sensed that it had not been an easy one. Nonetheless, it was not a harsh face; humor and warmth were written in the lines around her eyes.

Mary relaxed. Sybil would find kindness here, at least.

Edith had, as always, waited in her sister's shadow. Now she stepped into Sybil's embrace with tears in her eyes. This was real, she thought. At the Shelbourne today she could pretend that they were all just visiting this place together, that soon they would return to Downton, to reality. But here, in this small row house, it came home to her that this was reality. Sybil was never coming home.

Cora and Robert came up last, having hung back—Cora out of diffidence and Robert with extreme reluctance to proceed, to take this last step. Now Cora held out her hand to Tom's mother.

"Cora Crawley. I can tell that you are Mrs. Branson; Tom has the look of you. It is so nice to meet you." There. That hadn't been too bad, she thought. Breeding counted for something, after all.

"Likewise, your Ladyship. And it's Claire. Welcome to our home." The words, in that soft Irish lilt, were sincere, if guarded.

"Just Cora, please. We're going to be related, after all." That was harder, but it came out all right.

Robert extended his hand. "Robert Crawley. Very nice to meet you." He knew he sounded like a clockwork man, didn't care. He was over the first hurdle.

"And you too, your Lordship," said Claire Branson. He did not insist that she call him Robert; she did not suggest that he call her Claire.

After that, however, things became a bit easier. Introductions flowed, although Tom could have hoped that Kathleen might wipe the look of awe off her face. At least she didn't try to curtsy.

Still, it was better than the barely concealed hostility from Maire, he sighed. He supposed he should be relieved that his sister hadn't spat on Robert. That would certainly break the ice!

And where was Patrick? No one expected Michael, of course, but Patrick had been expressly ordered to be here for this all-important dinner, and Tom was surprised that his brother would let Sybil down by not attending. Probably out with another girl. Mam was going to kill him.

The tension was relieved, as it always is by babies, when Bernadette shyly but proudly offered up Fiona for inspection. The women were immediately drawn in, cooing and murmuring in that language reserved for infants and small children, and the mother in Bernadette decided that Sybil's family might be all right, after all.

The absence of his brothers meant that Tom was left alone with Robert—except for his brother-in-law Daniel, who as usual had nothing to say. Curse the man for his confounded reticence! Tom thought. He was no help at all.

They were rescued by little Connor, who trotted over to join the men as if he were expected in this all male group. He looked up at Robert fearlessly, then tugged on his jacket and said, "Up, pease!" as imperiously as any earl. Robert chuckled, bent down, and hoisted the lad up.

Sybil, who had been watching her father surreptitiously, relaxed. It was going to be all right.

It wasn't, of course. Once they were all squeezed around the large, battered table, conversation dwindled and died until everyone sat in uncomfortable silence. Sybil and Tom tried to maintain a running patter, but eventually had to give it up as a lost cause. Mrs. Branson kept herself busy running back and forth to the kitchen—rather more often than necessary, Tom noted.

Picking up on the tension, Fiona began to whimper, then wail, and Bernadette had to leave the table to tend to her. Connor, a stranger to silence, didn't like it one bit, and began to fidget and squirm until Kathleen got up to take him away as well.

Maire simply glared. She had made herself available for this dinner only under extreme duress, but she didn't have to talk to these people! They were the oppressors, holding her country in thrall and denying Irishmen and women their rights. She loathed them and all they stood for.

Cora, Mary and Edith had run out of conversation and were concentrating on their plates. Robert was wondering how long they would have to stay here; he didn't think he'd be able to hold it together much longer.

He was afraid to say anything, knowing how tetchy these Irish could be. How on earth could Sybil be happy here? These people were so foreign, in every possible way! If the fate of the world depended on his ever visiting this house again, then the world could go to hell! He grimaced—a look that was not missed by Tom, who glowered at him.

Things couldn't get much worse. And then they did.

The front door flew open with a crash. In the doorway stood Michael Branson, and in his arms he held the nearly unrecognizable body of his brother Patrick. Tears streamed down Michael's face and mixed with the blood that stained his shirt.

"Mam?" he choked. "Mam, I don't think he's breathing…I—I think I've gotten my brother killed!"


	5. Monsters of Us

_Grief makes a monster out of us sometimes . . . and sometimes you say and do things to the people you love that you can't forgive yourself for._

Melina Marchetta

 **Tuesday, June 10**

 **8:00 PM**

The occupants of the room stood frozen in a tableau of horror…all save one. Sybil sprang forward, instantly losing herself in the memories of Downton Cottage Hospital during the war. These injuries looked nothing new; the only thing missing here was a doctor—and the hospital itself, with all the necessary equipment. She was the only one who knew what had to be done, and she was on her own.

"Bring him into the front room; put him on the floor—now, Michael! Gently! Tom, get a basin of iced water and some cloths—hurry! Kathleen, find a blanket! Daniel, go get the doctor! Edith, I need you to help me!"

Tom had witnessed Nurse Crawley in action before, but never had it hit him with the force it did now, when her patient was his own brother. He ran from the room to do her bidding, fear lending speed to his steps.

Michael blinked away his tears and moved, responding automatically to the iron in Sybil's voice. Together they laid Patrick on the floor, and Sybil knelt to check for breathing and pulse. She found both, but his breath was so shallow as to be almost imperceptible and his pulse weak.

"He's breathing, Michael. He's alive." But she couldn't tell him how long that might last, and she had no time to make him feel better.

Automatically, Sybil ran through the protocol that had become second nature to her. She checked his airway and listened to his chest to make sure he was not drowning in his own blood. She had no idea how many ribs were broken, but she did not think by the sound that his lungs had been punctured; a miracle, if true.

His nose was broken; the swelling so massive that he looked barely human. Sybil placed a couch cushion under his head to elevate it slightly so that blood did not continue to drain into his throat. She was worried about the swelling over his brow and his enlarged pupils, but there was nothing she could do about that until a doctor arrived.

Patrick was as badly injured as many soldiers she had tended during the war, and without hospitalization she was worried that any one of his injuries might prove ultimately fatal. But for now he was alive…just.

Her minions returned with the tools she had ordered, and Sybil went to work. The enemy she must fight now was shock; she was worried about his clammy skin and rapid pulse. Carefully, she and Edith loosened his blood-soaked shirt, elevated his feet onto more cushions from the couch, and placed the blanket over him carefully. Sybil took the basin of water from Tom and gently applied the cold cloth to Patrick's face to alleviate the swelling.

Michael had disappeared, but Tom was right by her side…as he had always been. Her rock.

"Tom, talk to him. He needs to hear your voice. Just keep talking. You're doing fine."

By the time the the doctor from nearby Mater Hospital arrived, Sybil was exhausted. The man took over efficiently, shooing them all away from Patrick's body as if they were midges, hovering merely to annoy him.

"Who has been taking care of him?" he demanded suddenly. Sybil stepped forward tentatively.

"I have." Had she erred in some way?

"Are you a nurse?"

Sybil lifted her chin. "I am."

"Well, young lady, you are very good at what you do," the doctor told her solemnly. "Please, stay and help me. The rest of you may leave." He turned back to Patrick, his mind focused on his patient.

An hour later, Sybil wandered away in a daze. It truly did look as if they might have saved Patrick's life, although his condition was still critical. He needed to be moved to the hospital, and quickly. The nurse in her marveled at what had been managed in that room, under such primitive conditions.

The earlier energy that had propelled her into action had drained away, and she felt sodden and limp. Creeping out onto the back step to get a breath of much needed air, she found Michael, hunched and shaking.

He was crying; huge, gulping sobs that wracked his entire body. Sybil sat down beside him, but said nothing. He seemed unaware of her presence.

Time passed.

"It's my fault. If he dies, it's my fault," came the low voice, cloaked in self-loathing. His words were jagged, raspy, like sandpaper over old wood; he had been out here with his guilt and fear for a long time.

Sybil instinctively felt that arguing with him was not the right path to take, so she said simply, "Why?"

"They thought it was me. They were after me!"

 **9:00 PM**

Cora sat with Claire Branson in the kitchen and held her hand. In a split second, two strangers made uncomfortable by superficial social differences had been shown what truly mattered, and it changed everything. The two women, with the instinctive understanding of mothers, had bonded irrevocably and eternally.

"Tell me about him,", said Cora softly.

"He was—is—my sweetheart," murmured Claire. "He always idolized Tom growing up, followed him everywhere and wanted to be just like him. Tom was the smart one, always trying to be better, to make something of himself. As the oldest son, he took on the responsibility for the family after his Da died, and it made him more serious about life. Patrick was devastated when Tom left home to work; he was too young to understand why."

She paused.

"Patrick just wants to live for each day. He thinks everyone should be happy like he is. He doesn't worry about where the next paycheck will come from, or who is running the country; he just wants everyone to have fun. Don't get me wrong; he's not at all selfish. He would do anything for his brothers and sisters, and they all adore him for it. His sister Kathleen thinks he walks on water!"

She smiled shyly. "He loved your daughter right off. He's been her biggest champion…after Tom, of course."

Cora returned the smile. She hesitated, then asked, "And Michael?"

Claire sighed. "Michael took his cousin's death at the hands of the Eng—". She stopped, embarrassed. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright," Cora assured her. "Go on."

"Michael and Patrick used to be so close, especially after Tom left, but after his cousin Eamon was killed, Michael changed. You see," she said softly, "Eamon was just walking down the street, and an English soldier shot him dead. When he was asked about it, the soldier said it was because he was 'probably a rebel'. Michael never got over it. He's been pulling away ever since, and it's hurt Patrick something awful."

She paused, then looked up, eyes haunted. "I think Michael has become that rebel. I think he's tangled himself up with the IRA, and I can't stop him. He has so much anger in him, and I don't know how to reach him anymore! And I think he's pulling Maire down with him."

A sob caught in her throat. "I feel as if I'm losing two of my children, and if Patrick dies…oh, Lord, how will I go on? Why couldn't I have done better?" She stopped suddenly, and Cora caught her in her arms as she slumped forward, boneless with grief. She patted Claire gently on the back, as if she were a child.

"Now you listen, Claire Branson!" She said fiercely. "I do not know Patrick, or Maire, or Michael. I'm afraid I don't even know Tom as well as I should…and that's on me. But I know that Sybil loves Tom deeply, enough to risk losing her family to be with him, and that tells me he is special. My daughter is nobody's fool, and if she has given her heart to your son without reservation, then someone has raised him to be a wonderful man."

As Cora said the words, she realized with some surprise that she believed them, and a feeling of peace swept through her at the thought. Sybil would be all right.

She paused. "It seems to me that Patrick has the same kind of heart as Tom; that he loves his family deeply and sincerely. And as for Michael…it sounds as if he has every reason to be angry, given what he's seen in his young life. You raised him with standards; of course he would rail at injustice! And Maire…" she broke off on a sigh.

Claire looked at her blankly, through her tears.

"Well," said the Countess of Grantham with a wry look, "As the mother of three girls, I can assure you that there is absolutely nothing that you can do to stop them when they get the bit between their teeth!"

 **9:30 PM**

Lord Grantham sat at the table, alone. Mary and Edith were trying to keep Tom calm in the small sitting room. Cora was in the kitchen with Mrs. Branson, and Sybil…well, who knew where Sybil had taken herself? Everyone else had left on some pretext or other, unable to sit still while the doctor worked to save Patrick Branson, and apparently unwilling to stay in a room with only the Earl of Grantham for company.

What was going on here? he fumed. Never in his life had he been forced to bear witness to such a travesty! What kind of people were these, that dinner could be interrupted by violence like this? How often did this sort of thing happen?

He understood that Ireland was in turmoil, that the Irish could not be trusted with the running of their own country, and this was a perfect example of that fact. They were too volatile, too explosive. Like undisciplined children. He—none of his family—should ever have come here! And this was what Sybil had chosen? He felt sick to his stomach.

A shadow crossed the doorway, and he looked up to find Branson's sister—Maria or Myra, or something—staring at him. He did not like the look on her face.

"Yes?" he said, in as lofty a tone as he could muster in the face of that look.

Maire came to stand in front of him. For a moment, she continued to glare at him, at this creature who embodied everything she most hated in the world.

"It's your fault, you know," she said finally, in a low, measured voice.

"What?" sputtered Robert. He sat up straighter. The colossal nerve of this chit. Who the hell did she think she was talking to? _His_ fault?

"It's because you people won't leave us alone," she continued, ice dripping from her words. "You English send your soldiers over here to try and bend us to your religion, your culture, your beliefs…and we do not. want. you. here!" She spat out the words with all the venom of her built up anger and frustration.

"We are not British!" Her voice was rising. "We are not Protestants! We are not aristocrats! You send your soldiers over here to _keep us in our place,_ but we are already in our place! You've tried to steal our culture and our soul, but you will never win! We are going to rid our country of you and your army, if it takes every last one of us!"

"I hope the IRA finds you and does to you what your people did to my brother!" She was screaming now, out of control. "I hope they _kill_ you!"

" _Maire_!"

She stopped as if a light had burned out. In the doorway stood her mother, Cora, Tom, Mary and Edith, and Kathleen. The shocked looks on their faces went straight to her heart, but she told herself that she was not sorry. These were the things that needed to be said. For Ireland, for Michael, and for Patrick. For Eamon. Maire turned without a word and ran from the house.

Robert sat stunned. During the diatribe he had not moved, had not twitched, frozen in horror as this young woman eviscerated everything he believed and reduced it to ashes. How could a stranger hate him so much? She did not know him, did not know his family, and yet she judged him and in doing so spoke for an entire nation.

In that moment, the Earl of Grantham felt the weight of his country's arrogance down the corridors of history. The British obsession with empire had made other countries into enemies throughout the centuries; their oppression of the Irish had turned these people into lethal foes who would stop at nothing to see them gone.

They have made monsters of us, he thought…and he was suddenly afraid.


	6. Broken Pieces

_Far too often, the best thing I can have in my hand when someone makes a promise is a really big broom so that I can sweep up the broken pieces. -_ Craig D. Lounsbrough

 **Tuesday, June 10**

Following Maire's outburst, Robert Crawley had spoken to no one. He had called for the car and taken his family back to the Shelbourne, and no one had attempted to stop him. While varying degrees of embarrassment and mortification were left in his wake, no one had time for the feelings of the Earl of Grantham when a life was hanging in the balance.

The doctor had called for a medical car to remove Patrick to the hospital, and was finishing up his ministrations. No one dared to disturb him, fearing to change the outcome if they interfered. His family could do nothing for Patrick right now.

So, like victims of a natural disaster who do not know where to turn next, they shuffled into the dining room and stared at each other across the table. Bernadette had removed the children to bed and stayed with them, but Daniel was there, as were Kathleen and Michael.

Tom held Sybil's hand. Although she had been outside with Michael and had missed Maire's tirade, he was afraid to look into her eyes after the horrible words his sister had flung at her father. She squeezed his hand, the only way she could tell him that it was all right, that she was still there for him. The gesture, small and simple, made him want to cry.

For awhile, no one said anything, and then Sybil spoke.

"Michael has something to tell you."

Five glazed pairs of eyes turned to Michael, and waited.

He gulped. "I—I know who hurt Patrick," he began in a voice that cracked like an old man's. They were after me, and they got him by mistake."

Silence.

"They were…Ulster Volunteers," Michael said, so softly that he could barely be heard in the stillness of the room.

Tom's head jerked up, and then he exchanged a look with Sybil. She was remembering, too.

Very quietly, as if he were speaking to a frightened animal who might run at any moment, Tom said, "They were the men in the pub, weren't they?"

Michael nodded, but didn't look at him.

"And why were they after you?"

"Because I followed them, and I saw what they were doing."

"And why were you following them?"

Silence.

"Michael," Tom said, more quietly still if that were possible, "you are involved with the IRA, aren't you?"

Michael's eyes snapped up to lock on his brother's. "H—how did you know?" he gasped, jaw dropping in shock.

"C'mon, Michael, said Tom impatiently. "It's my job to know these things!" He glared at his younger brother. "You're not very good at covering your feelings, are you? Is that why you've been hiding from your family?"

Michael nodded again. "But it's not because I'm ashamed of anything…I'm not!" he snapped, beginning to recover some of his natural bravado. "I wanted to keep the family safe! That's why I joined! It's why I've stayed away. Honestly!"

"And how has that worked out for you?" Tom asked. Or for Patrick?" His voice was deceptively calm, but Sybil saw—and felt—how white his knuckles were as he gripped her hand.

Michael said nothing, stared at the table. Then a new voice broke the tension.

"You're a damn fool, boy, do you know that? You let passion cloud your common sense and put your family in danger, and for what? For Ireland? Shite! Ireland doesn't need more men with guns! More dead Irish! Is that what Eamon died for? We need to work to solve our problems with our brains, not with our fists or with weapons…Jaysus!"

Everyone gaped in astonishment at Daniel. His face was flushed and he was shaking with indignation. It was the longest speech anyone had ever heard the quiet, even-tempered man make, and he looked as surprised as they were.

Claire Branson abruptly got up from her place at the table and went to her son, taking him in her arms as she had done when he was a small boy afraid of the dark. And suddenly, as if this were the breach point, the dam inside Michael Branson broke. The fierce defiance crumbled and the young boy within the IRA soldier was exposed.

He clung to his mother as his body shook, letting the anguish and the terror of the preceding weeks pour out. No one said a word as the broken pieces of his anger and pain were swept away, to be lost again in the silence of the room.

"Er—hem…," a throat cleared in the doorway. "The motor is here," said the doctor. "I think our patient is out of immediate danger, but he must get to the hospital…May I please have a few words with the young woman who saved his life?"

 **Wednesday, June 11**

 **10:00 AM**

"We're going home!" thundered Robert.

"We are not," returned Cora equably. "O'Brien, could you try it up higher in the back? An updo, with maybe that diamond hairpin there?"

"I will not stay another day in this gruesome country! Are you listening to me, Cora? I never want to see another person named Branson again! They can all go to the devil—in fact, I think they have!"

He stormed on in this fashion for a few more minutes, and then ran out of invectives and ground to a halt, looking balefully at his wife.

"I did not come all the way to Ireland just to turn around again and miss my daughter's wedding, all because your feelings were hurt," Cora stated definitively. "Claire Branson is a lovely person, and I feel much better knowing that Sybil will have her for a mother-in-law."

"My f-feelings were hurt!" sputtered Robert, winding up for another go. "It was much more than that! Did you hear the way that young woman spoke to me? Did you hear what she said about our way of life…our country?"

Cora sighed. "I am afraid I would have had to be quite deaf to have missed it, Robert. She was upset about her brother, and she took it out on you, that is all. O'Brien, do you think it would look nicer swept up to the side?"

Robert stared at her in outrage. "Cora, this is more important than your hair! She said she hoped those rebels would _kill_ me, for God's sake!"

His wife turned patiently back to face him. "She was wrong to say that, Robert, but her brother was injured badly and may even be dying; can you understand how that must feel? She is passionate about her country's independence…young people have strong feelings about things…look at your own daughter!"

"Gaaagghk!" The Earl of Grantham seemed to have lost the use of his tongue.

 **5:00 PM**

Sybil was waiting for Tom outside the offices of _The Evening Herald_ when he finished work. Fear clutching at his heart, he searched for a clue in her expression.

She was beaming.

"Patrick?" he ventured hopefully. "He's better?"

"Yes! He has four broken ribs and a broken nose. The doctor had to drill a hole in his skull—it's called a burr hole—to stop the swelling from the haematoma in his brain…it's a very dangerous procedure. He did it with Daniel's drill, right in the living room last night! The fluid just all drained out…it was amazing!"

Tom had turned a bilious shade of green. "Sybil," he said uncertainly, "this is good news…right?"

"Oh, yes! He would have died from the pressure in his brain, don't you see? He couldn't be moved, so it had to be done right there! And I was the one who pointed out that his pupils were dilated, Tom! The doctor had missed it…well, that room _is_ rather dark…"

Well, that's wonderful, love," he said tentatively. "So…he's going to be alright?"

"He is. He'll be in the hospital for at least a week, but the doctor doesn't think there will be any lasting effects. I've just come from there. He's very lucky…I think whoever beat him meant to kill him, Tom."

"I think you're right, darling. But that's our Patrick…can't keep a Branson down!" His relief was palpable. The reality was finally sinking in. It had been so close; he had nearly lost his baby brother.

Sybil was dancing from side to side, still grinning like a simpleton. Surely household surgery wasn't _that_ exhilarating, was it? Tom narrowed his eyes at his fiancée. "Sybil…?"

"There's more!" She danced a circle around him and paused dramatically.

"I have a job!"

 **6:00 PM**

Maire sat staring into her third beer. At least she thought it was her third; she couldn't be sure at this point. Colum had taken one look at her face this afternoon and broken his rule about unaccompanied women in his establishment, pointing wordlessly to a table in the corner. Colum understood when rules needed to be broken. And he would keep her safe. He'd also be cutting her off soon.

She felt rudderless, adrift. She couldn't go home yet—not after last night. Mam would not lightly forgive her outburst to a guest in their home…worse, to the father of a future in-law. And she had had way too much to drink; that would not go over well _at all._

She had nowhere else to go, though. Last night had been spent at her friend Aileen's, but they weren't really that close and she didn't want to push it. She couldn't stay at the pub forever, either; she'd been here too long already and she would have to face the music sometime; grovel and apologize, pretend that she hadn't meant everything she had hurled at that pompous boor.

And she had to find out about Patrick; the worry was eating her alive. She leaned forward on the table and put her forehead in her hands. Who could have wanted to hurt Patrick? Everyone loved her brother; he wasn't political, never bothered to argue; he didn't want to spend energy on that sort of thing. Patrick was a lover, not a fighter. Everyone in the neighborhood knew it.

Had he gone too far with one of his girlfriends? Angered a male relative? Possible, but not likely. Patrick never got that serious with any of them, and he made a practice of never leaving them angry. And she had seen him last night; whoever had done that was more than angry. That was _hatred_.

She choked back a sob when she thought of his battered body, held in Michael's arms. _Oh_ , _Patrick_!

Suddenly she wished Sybil were here. She was a nurse and she'd been helping; she'd know what was going on with him.

And that was another sign that she'd had too much to drink. That she would wish for Tom's English fiancée to be anywhere near her was proof that she was losing it. Although, she had to admit that Sybil had done nothing offensive; on the contrary, she had bent over backward to be helpful and polite.

And every single sweet word she had uttered in that posh English accent had grated on Maire's ear like chalk on slate. Well, if she was honest it was not really that bad, but she did not feel much like being honest, not even with herself.

The truth was, she wanted to hate Tom's girl, but Sybil wasn't making it easy. Tom loved her to distraction, and he wasn't a pushover, so maybe there was something there. Besides, it didn't look as if she was going anywhere, so Maire guessed she'd have to get used to having her around.

Sybil must be something of a rebel herself, Maire mused. She'd up and run off with the family's chauffeur, after all. She thought of Lord Grantham's face last night, and giggled. What an uproar that must have caused in their perfect la-de-da world! Maire obviously wasn't the first rebellious female His Greatness had encountered.

Colum was giving her the evil eye; he'd be kicking her out soon enough. The giggle lodged in her throat and became a choked sob. What was she doing, laughing and drinking in the middle of the afternoon, instead of going home and finding out about her brother?

Being a coward, that was what. Oh, wasn't she all brave and fierce when it came to yelling at a defenseless victim in her own home? And Sybil's father _was_ defenseless, held hostage by his own sense of civility and manners. Maire had known he would never yell back at her; she had been free to call him horrible names and insult his culture, because he would never fight back.

But when it came to finding out about her brother, about whether he was even alive, here she sat in a pub, alone, drowning her fear and weakness. She realized that tears were running down her face and into her drink. Suddenly she was disgusted with herself. She needed to get it together and go home!

"Are you alright?"

A man stood next to her table, a look of concern on his ruddy features. He held his cap in his hands, and freckles stood out across his nose. He was older, maybe thirty, not bad looking…

What the hell? Maire shook herself in disgust. With everything she had going on, she was actually looking at a strange man like…that? She must really be drunk!

"Are you all right?" the man repeated, looking concerned. "Is there anything I can do?"

"No…there's nothing…that is, I'm alright, just have some worries, that's all…"

His eyes were very blue. _What_?

She heard herself, as if from a great distance. "My brother was injured badly yesterday, and my family is mad at me."

Was she actually telling this stranger her troubles? Yes, she believed she was. And so what? At least he was listening, which was more than she got from her damn family these days…

"Would you care to sit down?" Maire enunciated carefully. She pointed to the chair across from her.

"Thank you, if you don't mind. I don't want to intrude, but when I saw a pretty girl looking so sad, I had to see if I could help."

And Cian O'Neill took the seat across from Maire, smiling kindly.


	7. Out of Tune

_The best you can really hope for is a family where everyone's problems work together. Kind of like an orchestra where every instrument is out of tune in exactly the same way, so you don't really notice. -_ Neil Shusterman

 **Thursday, June 12**

 **9:00 AM**

Colum Murphy was _not_ her father, Maire fumed, lying in her bed and staring at the ceiling. Last night he had come running over like some kind of bodyguard only minutes after that nice Mr. O'Neill sat down, and practically chased the man away.

It was strange how Colum had materialized next to her and stated pointedly that it was time for her to go home—had actually insisted on escorting her around the corner himself and safely into the hands of her very irate mother.

At which point she had sealed her humiliation by sicking up and being sent to bed like a child. At least Mam had taken pity on her enough to inform her that Patrick had survived and was in hospital, thank God!

She supposed that Colum felt a responsibility for her, since he had broken his own rule and let her drink in his pub. She'd probably never be allowed in Murphy's again, she thought gloomily. She'd never seen him that upset.

But was it necessary to be so rude? Mr. O'Neill—Cian—had really been quite a gentleman; listening to her as she poured out her anger at the men who had attacked her brother, and asking her about how the rest of her family was taking the tragedy. She'd been grateful. Maire wondered if she would ever see him again…just so she could thank him, of course.

She really never talked so freely to strangers, but she knew that everybody around here felt the same way she did about the RIC and their paid thugs, and about the British, and she had just been so angry at that earl father of Sybil's!

Maybe she had had a bit too much to drink—well, obviously she had had too much to drink since it had all come back up—but he had been such a good listener. It was really so embarrassing!

Maire groaned and sat up. She really did not feel well at all, but there was no putting it off any longer. It was time to go downstairs and face Mam. She knew she was in disgrace, and no amount of righteous indignation was going to save her.

The only good thing about last night had been the news that Patrick was going to be alright—and apparently Sybil had been a big part of the reason for that, so she supposed she would have to be a lot nicer to Tom's English fiancée. Ugh.

 **4:00 PM**

Lady Edith Crawley felt light, buoyant, not her normal self at all. Despite the events of two nights ago at the Branson home, despite her father's ongoing surly mood and Mary's usual sniping comments, she was enjoying herself in Dublin.

"I like it here," she announced. "I like the sounds, the smells, I even like the accents, although I don't understand a lot of what they're saying. And I like the beer. I really like the beer!"

Sybil laughed and squeezed her sister's arm. "I don't even like the beer yet, Edith! Are you sure you're not just glad to get away from Mary?"

"Well, I'm always glad to get away from Mary. It's not that, though. I think I like the _differentness_ of it all. I hadn't realized how much the _same_ my life is, day in and day out. I'm beginning to see why you wanted to run away."

"I didn't want to run away, darling," said Sybil. "I wanted Tom, and that meant a different kind of life. I wanted to do something useful, to make something of my life, and he was my ticket." Her eyes lost focus slightly, as they always did when she talked about Tom.

Edith looked fondly at her sister. "Well, you _are_ doing something! I am so proud of you—a real nurse! And I am so happy that you wanted to share your news with _me_." Before Mary, was the unspoken thought that they both understood. "Tell me everything about the job."

The two sisters were walking in the park across the street from the Shelbourne Hotel, having spent the morning window shopping and the afternoon with Tom's mother, who was putting the finishing touches on Sybil's wedding dress.

Claire Branson, thought Edith, was as formidable as Carson in her way, so it was no surprise that her skill with the needle was unrivaled in the neighborhood. If it was to be her livelihood, her flying fingers said, it would naturally be the best, or what was the point? She would have made a great butler.

When Tom had come home from work he had taken them to Murphy's, where the wedding reception would be held in little more than a week, and had introduced Edith to Colum and to her first Guinness. Unlike Sybil, she took to ale as if she'd been born with a pint in her hand. They'd have to keep an eye on Lady Edith at the wedding party.

Now, after Edith's first ever tram ride back to the hotel, they sat on a park bench while Sybil waxed poetic about the hospital; about surgery and blood and sutures…and about Patrick's doctor, who had worked with her to save him under impossible conditions, had appreciated her skills and overlooked her background, and who had asked her to be his assistant.

"Of course, I'll have to take classes to be properly trained, but Doctor Walsh said that I should have no trouble with those. He said that it is a cool head under pressure that makes for a good nurse, and he saw that in me right away. He said my quick action saved Patrick's life! Imagine!

"I can hardly believe it, Edith!" she marveled. "I had been to so many hospitals and doctor's offices with Patrick, and no one wanted to give me a chance…and now all of a sudden I'm going to be a real, working nurse, at Mater Hospital! It's one of the best, Edith!"

Edith sighed. "It's wonderful, Sybil. You know," she said thoughtfully, "I've never told you this, but you are the bravest woman I have ever known. If I take the plunge and break out of the Downton mold one day, I'll have you to thank for it. You make it all sound so possible!

"Now, go home and go to bed. You'll need all that courage tomorrow; it's Mama and Mary's turn!"

 **6:00 PM**

"I think her brother was in the IRA!" Cian O'Neill reported to his companions. They were meeting in an abandoned warehouse down by the docks; the third place this week. It was important to keep moving; there were too many of them to avoid attention if they stayed in one place too long. But all of this subterfuge would be unnecessary very soon, if his new idea panned out.

Cian had been fortunate to spy the lad they had been looking for near Murphy's pub a few days ago, and two nights ago they had taken him out as he walked heedlessly down the street, pretty-as-you-please. One less threat. These republicans were so stupid! How did they think they could run their own country!

He had been right when he thought this would be easy, he told the nine gathered around him. He had been hanging out in the pub again yesterday, continuing the plan to blend in so that the locals would become used to him, when he'd seen the pretty girl crying in the corner. She'd had a bit to drink so he decided to chat her up, figuring that any local information he could get might be useful, right?

"And you'll not believe it, but she's the sister of that boy we took care of on Tuesday! She thinks the RIC did it," he chortled. "She's some sort of rebel follower herself—wants all those English bastards to pay for what happened to her brother."

"And exactly how does all that help us?", said Eoghan. "The IRA already hates us! Far as they're concerned, we're the same as those English bastards you're talkin' about!"

"Just listen up! I only got to talk to her for a few minutes before that guard dog barman scampered up and stole her off, but I learned something else…something maybe we can use."

Cian waited, dragging out the silence for a few more seconds.

"Well, come on, man. If you've got something, out with it! We don't have all night!" one of the other men grumbled.

Cian grinned. "Another brother just got back from England. He brought home a posh English girl. Her father's some sort of aristocrat and her whole family's over here for the wedding!"

The rest of the Ulster brigade were staring at him.

"So?"

"You lot just don't get it, do you?" Cian sighed.

"What if something was to happen to one of those aristocrats?" he spoke slowly, as if to children. "Something bad.

"Who do you think would get the blame for that, huh? This town would blow the hell up!"

 **Friday, June 13**

 **Noon**

Patrick tried to smile at the angel sitting at the side of his hospital bed, but even that tiny movement sent a herd of wild beasts running through his head. Everything hurt. Had he been run over by a tram? He couldn't remember. It hurt too much to try.

"Don't move, dear, just stay still," came Sybil's soft, husky voice. "You've been in an accident, but you are going to be just fine."

He managed to open his mouth, to force out a whisper. "What—", and stopped abruptly as the pain clamped down again. He allowed himself to drift off, believing that no matter how much he hurt, it would get better, because Sybil had said so. She was a nurse; she would know.

When he awoke again, Michael and Tom were sitting by his bedside. The pain was still there, but it was less than before…so long as he didn't move his head. His brothers looked bone weary, but they were smiling.

"What happened to me?" This time he was able to get the words out, although his voice sounded far away, as if someone else was translating his thoughts, someone with a rusty voice that sounded a bit like his.

Tom and Michael exchanged a look, and then Tom spoke, softly.

"What do you remember?"

Patrick reached back as far as his jumbled brain would let him. "Maureen was mad at me. She's jealous of Syb—" no, that wasn't quite right. "She didn't want me to go home." Yes, that was it.

Tom pressed gently. "And then what, Pat?"

"But I had to. I had to go home to meet Sybil's family. I don't remember them, though. Did I meet them? Are they nice? They must be…if they're …anything like Sybil…" He stopped, exhausted, closing his eyes against the pain hammering behind them.

"Just rest, Pat. D-don't think about it right now," he heard Michael say, but his brother sounded muffled, congested. Was he sick? Patrick drifted off to sleep again, grateful that the pain receded along with all the light and sound in the room.

"I can't stand it, Tom!" Michael choked. "That should be me in that bed. Not him. I knew the risks, I chose to put myself in danger…it should be me!"

Tom took his brother by the arm and dragged him out of the room and into the nearest patient waiting room, where he pushed him into a chair and sat down across from him.

"Nobody should be in that bed, Michael!" he said sternly. "This is not your fault. It's the fault of the cowards who ganged up on him and beat him near to death! We live in dangerous times, and sometimes innocent people get caught up in the violence. We're at war—you of all people know that, and everyone must follow his conscience and do what he thinks is right."

He sighed. "I won't deny that joining the IRA put you, all of us, in greater danger, and it isn't the path I would choose…but you are doing what you think you must for your country, and I won't condemn you for it.

"What I will say, though, is this…joining a revolution because of Eamon, because of what happened to our cousin, is the wrong reason. Hating everything and everyone British because of what one soldier did is wrong. Giving up your brain to anger and mob thinking is _always_ wrong! Do you understand that, Michael?"

Michael looked his brother in the eye, and nodded

"Then," said Tom, "it is time to grow up. You took an oath when you joined the Volunteers. You must look seriously at that oath, and decide if you can be true to it.

"If that oath requires you to act mindlessly, to commit violence against what you know to be right, against the way Mam raised you, then you know what you have to do. If your comrades in the IRA cannot accept your choices, then they are not your brothers. Whatever you decide, _I_ am your brother, and I stand behind you!"

Tom stood and turned away. When he reached the doorway, he turned around.

"I fight this war, just as you do, Michael," he said quietly. "I want freedom for Ireland, the right to govern our own land. I want to live in a country where my wife is not reviled for her nationality or for the mistakes of her countrymen. I want to raise my children in peace."

"We _will_ fight the animals who hurt innocent people like Patrick and Eamon. But we will do it together. We will not be out of tune with each other, not lose our own humanity in the doing…and that's how we will win!"

And Tom was gone, back to his newspaper to fight the battle for Ireland in the way he knew best.


	8. Light in the Dark

_Home isn't where you're from, it's where you find light when all grows dark. -_ Pierce Brown

 **Saturday, June 14**

 **9:00 AM**

Kathleen Branson stood in the doorway of the tiny room she shared with Maire and Sybil. In a week it would be just the two sisters again; Sybil would be gone, a married woman. Kathleen would miss her; in a few short weeks the English girl had captured her heart as surely as she had Tom's.

But it wasn't Sybil she was thinking about now. Kathleen was wondering, not for the first time, what had happened to her sister Maire. They never talked anymore; she seemed to be in her own world, so far away from the rest of them. She was always so _angry_.

They used to have such fun, Kathleen thought wistfully, remembering the way Maire and Patrick had patiently included her in their games and adventures. She had followed them everywhere, and they had never—well, hardly ever—tried to get rid of their adoring little sister.

It had always been the three of them, like the Three Musketeers. Michael was always with Eamon, Tom was gone and Bernadette was old—she giggled at the thought of how Bern would kill her if she heard that!—so the three youngest Bransons had formed an alliance and made Dublin their playground.

Until the Easter Rising. Until Eamon was killed. She wondered if Maire had been a little in love with their dashing cousin…maybe his death had snapped something inside her. She had started to hang around more with Michael, had begun spouting republican sentiment and railing against the English oppressors.

Oppressors like Sybil's father, apparently. Kathleen had thought the earl's family was glorious, almost like the kings and princesses in fairy tales, but her sister had hated them all on sight. When she had gone off on Lord Grantham like that, Kathleen had thought she would die of embarrassment for Sybil and Tom, and for Mam. Especially for Mam.

Patrick had almost died, and the one who had been doing everything to save him had been the daughter of the English oppressor Maire was so on about! Couldn't she see that?

Well, enough was enough. The next time she got five minutes alone with her sister, she was going to let her know how she felt about this new, unimproved version. Maire was going to see another side to her sweet little baby sister!

She owed it to The Three Musketeers. One for all, and all for one.

 **11:00 AM**

One of the Musketeers was feeling very much alone right now. Maire was staring at the wall in the hospital waiting room, having peeked in on her brother and finding him asleep.

He looked terrible. Bandages covered his head and much of his face, and the parts that were showing were bruised a hideous fusion of blue and purple. If she hadn't read the name on his chart, she never would have believed it was Patrick in that bed.

She felt the omnipresent anger begin to simmer again. Who could do that to another human being? Not in anger—that would at least have been understandable. No, this had been methodical, purposeful. And it had to have been more than one person; Patrick was not a fighter, but he was no lightweight. He was more than capable of defending himself in a fair fight.

So…not a fair fight. Which meant more than one—a gang. And the only gang vicious enough to deliberately inflict this sort of damage was that sorry excuse for a police force, the Royal Irish Constabulary. The RIC was being bolstered by recruits from the prisons of England, she had heard, which made sense. A bunch of cowards, paid to inflict as much damage as possible. God, she hated them all!

"Maire?" came a soft voice. A _British_ voice. Sybil was standing in front of her, looking concerned.

Maire said nothing. She was struggling to hold on to her anger, to remember that this particular invader had crossed the boundary not only of her country, but of her _family_. She wanted to concentrate on Patrick's battered face and hate this Englishwoman who had brought her whole entitled family into their world to mock them.

But it was no good. As much as she tried, she couldn't force Sybil into that mold. She wasn't like the rest of her family; Maire had seen that when they were all together in her house. Maybe it was because her mother was an American, she reflected. There was something that Tom had seen in this one, and fight it as she might, she trusted her brother.

Tom was a republican, she knew that. He was on their side, he wanted freedom for Ireland just as she and Michael did. He didn't go far enough for her, that was true; try as she did to bait him, he refused to endorse violence as the means to that end. But his socialist principles were intact; they would not have been subverted by a pretty English face.

And Sybil had saved Patrick's life. Mam had told her so, after giving her the biggest tongue-lashing of her life about her behavior and her inebriated condition last week. Her brother would have been dead if it weren't for this woman standing in front of her now—her future sister-in-law.

Like it or not, the British invasion of her family had been a success. She'd better accept it and move on. She looked up at Sybil.

"I couldn't see him. He was asleep. La—Sybil, he looks so bad…are you sure he's going to be all right?"

Sybil sat down beside her. "He's going to be fine. It was a close thing, but he's already healing well. He sleeps a lot, but that's just his body working to protect itself while he gets better. His nose is broken and there was a head injury, that's what's causing all the bruising. And the rest of him looks just as bad. But he'll be as pretty as ever, don't worry!"

Maire gave her a tremulous smile. "Thank you."

Sybil smiled back at her. "I know, people who have been beaten tend to look pretty awful, but—"

"No." Maire cut her off. "I meant…thank you for saving my brother. I know you were the one who took over, who knew what to do, who…just—thank you."

She reached out tentatively across the gulf between them and took Sybil's hand. It was a soft hand, a posh English hand…and suddenly it felt right in her own. It felt like a sister's hand.

 **Noon**

Sybil had seen Maire off and was hurrying to meet Tom for lunch in the park across the street from the hospital. It was the best part of her day, and she didn't want to be a minute late.

Would it always feel this way, she wondered? This tingly, almost breathless feeling every time she thought of him? Part of her hoped so, and another part was sure that her body would never last till old age if it kept heating up at the very thought of his eyes, his smile, his honest calloused hands with the ink stains permanently lodged under his nails….

His hands. The heat was spreading, flooding as yet unused parts of her body as she imagined what those hands would be doing to her in a week. Sybil had a _very_ good imagination. The little time they had been able to steal for themselves had given her a hunger for the real thing, and she was sure she might die soon for want of him. She imagined hours…no, days…with no one in the world but Tom and her…preferably in a huge bed with lots of pillows…naked…

She rounded the corner and ran headlong into none other than the man himself. The shock of seeing the object of her lustful imaginings, in the flesh, jerked her rudely back to the present. In the flesh—oh, God, that didn't help! Face the color of a tomato, she quickly redressed both of them in her mind and tried to cool herself down.

"Darling? Are you alright? You seem a bit flushed. Is Patrick?…"

"Patrick's fine. I was just running to meet you, that's why I'm out of breath. It wasn't anything else. I just missed you, so much." She took a deep steadying breath, and looked into those wonderful eyes.

"Tom, did—did you know I love you, rather a lot?"

The next instant she found herself shoved into a supply closet. As the door closed, his arms came around her and his lips showed her that yes, he did know that. It was amazing how little actual conversation there was in the language of love, she thought dreamily, as she melted into his embrace. It was also interesting that he had somehow known what she was _really_ thinking. It took her back to her fantasy, and their naked bodies in bed, and…

"Oh, my God!" She pulled away and looked at him in horror.

Tom looked alarmed. "Sybil, what is it? Now you're scaring me!"

"Tom, we don't have a bed!"

 **3:00 PM**

The Mater Misericordiae Hospital On Eccles Street had been providing medical care to all those who needed it, regardless of their means, since 1861. It had faced the cholera epidemic of 1866, the smallpox epidemic of 1871, and the arrival of the hospital ships from the front during the Great War. Queen Victoria had visited in 1900.

In 1916, the Mater had opened its doors to the dead and wounded from the Easter Rising. It was where Eamon Branson had been brought to die. Now the venerable hospital had embraced another Branson, this time with happier results. And it was where an expat soon to be named Sybil Branson would begin her professional nursing career.

Cian O'Neill was sitting outside the Mater, watching. He had hung around outside Murphy's pub all week, but the girl Maire hadn't shown up again. Probably wouldn't have been allowed near her, anyway—that barman had given him the evil eye the night he had tried to chat her up, had even dragged her away from him as soon as he could get away from his bar. He did not think it would be wise to go inside again.

He knew the man couldn't know who—what—he was. If he had, Cian wouldn't have been allowed near the place. These people were all republicans, some probably with ties to the IRA. They would have given him up in a heartbeat, and he would be dead. But it was better to be cautious, so he would stay outside.

He had realized, after waiting fruitlessly for her to appear at the pub, that her brother—the one who should be dead but had somehow, unaccountably, survived the attack—would be in hospital, and she would be certain to visit him.

So just now he had moved his vigil to a bench across from the Mater, and settled down again to wait. Waiting came easily to Cian; he had been waiting for a long time. He would be back again tomorrow, and sooner or later she would come.

The girl had been nice; a long-suppressed part of him had wished, fleetingly, that she was just a girl with a problem, and he was just a chap who wanted to help her. But those days were long ago, part of another life.

Once he had been that chap, an ordinary man who had his life before him, a good job with a Belfast shipbuilding firm, a girl of his own. Emily was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and for Cian it had been love at first sight.

She was above him, an Anglican minister's daughter with higher prospects, but she had chosen him, Cian, over all the other men angling for her hand. She said it was his kindness and his gentle nature that had drawn her to him. His future was spread before him, complete and perfect.

Until three years ago. Until the bomb went off in her father's church. The Provisional Irish Republican Army claimed responsibility and a wave of counter violence ensued, but the damage was done. Emily, her father, and seven other Protestant worshipers were dead…and Cian's life was changed forever.

His hatred burned so red-hot that he had wanted to go on a rampage, kill every Catholic who crossed his path. It was his cousin Eoghan who had saved him, counseling him to channel his feelings where they could do the most good.

So they had joined the Ulster Volunteers, swearing an oath to serve with the British to block Home Rule and any incursions by the Catholics in the south. If it also involved revenge killings of IRA members or Catholics in general, all the better.

Cian had risen quickly in the ranks. His fellow soldiers were in awe of his natural military shrewdness and his fearlessness, not knowing that it stemmed from an indifference as to whether he lived or died. When the chance came to lead a Unionist militia into Dublin to wreak havoc on the Catholic republicans, he was the natural choice.

So now here he sat, waiting for a girl who had done him no harm, having already engaged in violence against her brother and plotting to commit an act that would ruin her life and the lives of her entire family. Any shame he might have felt was lost in his past life, in a part of him that was dead and gone.

Their plan was ingenious, and if they were successful it would scar the landscape of Dublin forever. The ramifications of their action would change the focus of the war in Ireland, bringing down the wrath of the British Army on the IRA like never before and almost guaranteeing its ultimate destruction. If it worked, this would make the Easter Rising look like an outing in the park.

 **9:00 PM**

The Earl of Grantham was pacing again. There seemed to have been a lot of pacing since he had lost his daughter to the Irishman, he thought despondently. It was getting to be a habit.

So far, this visit had turned out just as badly as he had thought it would.

He had been ignored and then insulted by Branson's family last week at that travesty of a dinner. It was no more than he had expected, really, but so much more left-handed and dreadful in reality.

Cora and the girls, rather than sharing his outrage, had made excuses for their hosts—if you could dignify them with that term—because of the tragedy that had befallen their son and brother. All right, he could concede that the circumstances at the end of the dinner were distressing in the extreme, and probably not the normal run of events even in Dublin, but what about before?

It had just been so awkward. They had had nothing to talk about, no common ground. And then that Myra girl! Screaming at him, threatening him, blaming him for everything wrong in this confounded country! It was all so unfair and uncivilized. And he had been willing to try, for Sybil's sake. He really had!

" _No, you really did not try,_ " a voice in his head said sternly.

"Steady on!" he said to the voice, but it would not leave him alone. Robert Crawley was not one for introspection; self reflection didn't feel right when one knew exactly where one stood in the world. But the voice persisted, and somewhat resentfully he began to listen.

He had not really tried to understand these people, the voice told him. He had been a bit of a pompous ass at the Branson home; hadn't given the Irish family the chance he had promised himself he would. He had judged them and rejected their values and their lifestyle out of hand.

" _It was not about you_ ," the voice said. " _It was about Sybil_." And he had to admit the truth in the words. No matter how he felt about this country, it was going to be his daughter's home after next week, and once again he had refused to see that, had forgotten what really mattered.

He was going to walk her down the aisle, give her away to the man she loved; the first of his daughters to be married. The man, the church, the place—none of that was important compared to Sybil's happiness.

Sybil, he thought. She really was amazing. She had taken charge of that menagerie, put them all to work helping her with the injured boy…and they had jumped to do her bidding! She would have made a wonderful military commander if she had been a man. Even the doctor had been impressed; had asked her to assist him. To be honest, he had never been more proud of his daughter.

He needed to see Sybil. Just the two of them, father and daughter. He wanted to tell her that he was proud of her, that he respected her decision. He realized now that his home was not hers…not anymore. Not for a long time. Even before she met the chauffeur, her life had been set upon a different path.

Home was where you found your light in the darkness. She had found her light in Branson, in nursing, and in Ireland. He needed to tell her he thought he finally understood. He needed to ask for her forgiveness.


	9. The Cards We're Dealt

_There are two things in life you cannot choose. The first is your enemies; the second your family. Sometimes the difference between them is hard to see, but in the end time will show you that the cards you have been dealt could always have been worse._ \- Carlos Ruiz Zafon

 **Sunday, June 15**

"Tom!" giggled Sybil. "We'll get caught!" She tried, not too hard, to remove his hand from where it was straying.

"I don't care," he murmured into her neck. "This has been the longest week of my life! I think I might die before Saturday!"

"Stop being so dramatic, love…do you think I feel it any less? But it's only six days more, and if your mother catches you doing…oooh…what you are very definitely doing, you'll die anyway!"

"Humph," Tom said, but removed his hand and moved to the other end of the couch, looking carefully around. They had been spending a few stolen moments in the sitting room of the Branson home, in truth doing more reclining than sitting, and for a blissful few moments Tom had forgotten that his mother could walk in on them at any time.

Yesterday they had gone shopping for a bed, and had found the perfect one in a secondhand shop. Big, sturdy, and it didn't squeak. They had jumped up and down on it in the shop to be sure. This was most important, as they would be taking over Tom's old room at Mam's until they found a flat. If they moved his old wardrobe out it should just fit.

Discussion of the merits of the new bed had led to thoughts of what might be accomplished in such a bed, and both of them were quite worked up by this time.

"How am I going to wait six more days?" Tom moaned.

"How did you wait six years?" she replied pertly. "I thought you were an exceptionally patient man…was I wrong?" She cocked a perfect eyebrow at him.

"Well, for most of that time I didn't really think I stood a chance, if you'll remember. I talked to the mirror in the motor and you talked to the back of my head. I had conversations with your ankles from under the car…and very lovely they are, by the way. Then, I poured out my heart to you, and you told me that you were 'flattered'." He assumed an aggrieved expression, which evolved into an exaggerated pout. "I was going to come home to Ireland and let those posh dandies have you, you know!"

"No, you weren't," Sybil said serenely. "You told me you'd wait forever."

"I almost did!"

She launched herself at him. "And I am ever so glad you did, darling!"

Her arms wrapped around his waist and she knocked him back into the cushions, her lips demonstrating just how glad she was that he had waited.

"Ahem," came a voice from the hallway, and the two sprang apart, Sybil falling onto the floor in an unladylike heap. Tom dissolved into laughter.

"Hi, Mam," he said cheerfully. "You're home early." He tried not to look at his crimson-faced fiancée, who had become entangled in her dress and was floundering like a landed fish as she attempted without much success to straighten herself out.

"Not early enough, I think!" replied Claire Branson.

 **Monday, June 16**

Michael turned on the couch in the hospital waiting room and looked at his sister in exasperation. "Maire, I am not quitting the IRA! I am simply changing my priorities after what happened to Patrick."

"Telling them you won't take part in anything that could turn violent is quite a change, Michael! And isn't what happened to Pat even more of a reason to go after the British? They're the reason he's in hospital, for God's sake! It had to be them!"

"No, Maire, it wasn't the British who beat Patrick. At least not the RIC. It was a gang of Ulster Unionists. I saw them…and they saw me!" He stopped. Even after his conversation with Tom, after coming to terms with his involvement in his brother's beating, it was difficult for Michael to get the words out.

"It was me they were after, Maire, because they knew I could identify them for what they were!"

Maire sat back and gaped at him. The two had had little contact since the attempted murder of their brother, and this was news to her.

"What'dya mean, you saw them? Where?"

"Two of them were hanging outside one of our meeting places two weeks ago, and I didn't recognize them so I followed them. They met a bunch of other guys at a run-down pub, and I watched."

"But how did you know they were from Ulster?" Maire asked, confused.

"They gave a sign like this…" he held his right hand up, fingers and thumb tight together and palm pointed out. "It's the sign of the Red Right Hand. That's the Ulster Volunteers' symbol. It's bad stuff, Maire!

"Then they saw me, and I froze. Long enough for them to see my face good and clear. I ran like hell, and got away."

Maire gasped. "Then Patrick…"

"Patrick was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. They thought it was me and tried to kill him. They almost did." He ducked his head, the memory of his fear and shame too raw.

"But Michael, aren't the Ulster gangs on the same side as the British? Aren't they fighting Home Rule too? How does this change your feeling about working with the IRA? I would think you'd want to get revenge! I don't understand!" Her eyes flashed anger and confusion.

Michael sighed. "I don't know if I can tell you so you'll understand, sis. I had a talk with Tom…"

"Oh, Tom!" she snapped. "Of course. The one who thinks he can solve all our problems by throwing newspapers at them!"

"He's right, though, Maire! Tom knows that an eye for an eye isn't the way to get the change we want! Patrick was an innocent, and look what happened to him. Every time we fight violence with more violence, innocent people get hurt! This is real life. It isn't romantic or adventurous; it's ugly and dangerous!

"I'm staying in the IRA. I took an oath, and the words still hold. I'll fight my corner for my country, but I won't take part in any bombings or mob violence, just for the sake of revenge. I'll play the cards I'm dealt, but I'll do it my way! I don't think you would want it any other way either, would you, Maire?" He was almost pleading, begging her to understand.

His sister was silent for a long moment.

"I don't know, Michael. I'm still so angry at those toffs over in England who think they can send soldiers over here to tell us what to do!"

She sighed. "But I know Tom's right, even if I don't like it. And I suppose you are too."

Maire was silent for a while. Then she spoke, in a low voice. "I was awful to Sybil's father the night they came to dinner, the night Patrick…" she gulped.

"But Sybil saved Patrick. I've been horrible to her ever since she got here, because she's British, but she isn't like what I imagined at all! She's been really lovely to me, even after the way I treated her. Her mother's nice, too. Mam really likes her. I thought they were all arses like her father, that uppity Earl of Grantham—but they're not!

"Michael, did you know that I told Sybil's father that I hoped the IRA would kill him? I didn't mean it; I don't like his kind over here, but I would never want that!"

She looked at him and sighed deeply. "I'm going to have to apologize to him. I don't know if I can do it, but I'm going to have to try."

Michael smiled. It was a tight, forced smile, but he was out of practice. It was the first time he had smiled in a very long while. "You can do it, Maire. And while you're at it, you might think about apologizing to Kathleen, too. She wants to kick your ass!"

 **Tuesday, June 17**

Lady Mary Crawley looked at herself in a shop window, and was pleased. Anna had done a commendable job on her hair today, pinning it into an artistic chignon that was both simple and elegant. Maybe she could do something like it for the wedding, with an extra comb or two. It probably wouldn't do to look too fancy for a reception in a public house. She grimaced at the prospect.

Looking at her sisters, she wondered why she bothered. Sybil's hair was escaping its carelessly pinned bun, as usual, and Edith…well, why did Edith always have to effect those ringlets that made her look like a child? One needed competition in order to excel at anything worthwhile, and there was a decided lack of competition here. She sighed.

"So, where is this flower shop, Sybil? You said that it was right around the corner, but that was five minutes ago! And why do we have to _look_ at the flowers? Can't you just order them?"

Sybil laughed. Her sister would never understand her new life, neither its joys nor its limitations.

"Mary, dear, it's not a shop. One of Tom's cousins has agreed to make our baskets, and she is limited to what grows in her garden. I want you along because I need your advice…I haven't had much time to think about it, and to be honest, I don't care what I'm carrying down the aisle as long as the aisle leads to Tom!"

Mary rolled her eyes. Sybil was so _gushy_ these days; she might just melt into the sidewalk if she wasn't careful!

"Well," Edith said loyally, you won't need any flowers at all to be the most beautiful bride Dublin has ever seen! Papa won't want to give you awa—" She stopped, realizing the impact of her words. Mary shot her a look of disgust behind Sybil's back.

"Oh, well, I'm not sure Papa will even show up after what happened at dinner last week," Sybil moaned. "I could hear Maire screaming something all the way out on the back step, and then Papa scooped you all up and rushed back to the hotel before I could even say goodbye! Are you positive he's still here in Dublin?"

"Well, as a matter of fact, my darling," Mary said smugly, "Papa asked me to tell you he'd like to meet you at the church on Friday, just to talk before the wedding. He misses you, Syb, and he knows you'll be too busy in the next few days."

Tears sprang unbidden to Sybil's eyes and threatened to overflow. "Really? I was afraid he might never want to speak to me again!"

A time was set, and the Crawley girls continued their journey to the home of Tom's florist cousin, Sybil with a little extra bounce in her step. Her papa was still willing to take part in her wedding—it was more than she had expected, and she felt a rush of affection for the first man in her life, the man who had seen her through her childhood and had always wanted the best for her—even if he didn't know what that was.

She was still surprised that he had come to Dublin at all, and could not really have blamed him if he had taken the next ferry back to England after last week. For the first time, she realized that she had been expecting exactly that, after the debacle at the Branson home. But, she thought proudly, Papa had been a soldier, and he was very brave. _Almost_ as brave as Tom.

 **Wednesday, June 18**

As Maire emerged from the hospital the next day, Cian assumed his most charming smile. The days of waiting had finally paid off.

"Well, hello!" he greeted her cheerfully. "What a pleasant surprise! I believe we met the other day…at Murphy's, wasn't it?"

Maire was somewhat taken aback by the man's forward manner. If she were truthful, she barely remembered him from that less than distinguished evening at the pub. She preferred to forget that she had ever darkened Colum's doorway, or drowned her sorrows in so much of his fine ale.

But she did remember that this man—what was his name?— had been kind, and had listened to her when she was at her lowest point. He deserved some courtesy for that, she supposed.

If it hadn't been for her worry about Patrick and her annoyance at Lord Grantham—all right, and her defiant contemplation of her shameful behavior—she would never have met this man in the first place. She certainly had never expected to see him again. It was rather disconcerting, but somehow a bit exhilarating too. At least she should be nice.

The truth was she was feeling so buoyant after her visit with her brother just now that she forgave the man his boldness and allowed him to walk with her toward the tram stop. She felt like forgiving everyone today.

Sybil had been there—she was working with Patrick's doctor now—and had said he was doing so much better; might even go home tomorrow. Patrick had been awake and complaining, so she knew he was on the mend.

Now she glanced under her lashes at the man walking beside her. Maire had had little interaction with men as…well, as _men._ With three brothers, she had always found herself treated more as one of the boys, and until now she had been just fine with that.

But here was this attractive man, paying attention to her, listening to her, treating her as a _woman._ It was an odd and not entirely unwelcome sensation. She wasn't sure how she felt about it, but at least she could enjoy the attention for awhile, couldn't she?

So again she found herself responding to his questions about her family; telling him about her brother's improving condition, about Kathleen and Connor and baby Fiona, and about the upcoming wedding of her older brother to the English aristocrat who was so much nicer than she had thought…

She never noticed that the conversation was entirely one-sided, that Cian O'Neill was sharing nothing about himself or his family, or that he was asking all the questions.

"And I was so hateful to Sybil's father!" she ran on. "I don't like the English, and I wish they'd leave us alone to run our country, but I'm going to have a British sister, and I suppose her father can't really be that bad to have a daughter like her, can he?

"I mean, he did come over for the wedding; he'll be walking Sybil down the aisle. And her mother's nice, but she's American so it probably doesn't count. Her sisters seem all right; the older one is a bit full of herself, but the other one didn't put on airs, just seemed a bit down in the mouth.

"And Lord Grantham's not even Catholic, but he's meeting her at St. Kevin's the day before the wedding, so maybe he's not as much of an old stick as he seems. Sybil is so excited about it!"

Cian broke into her rambling. "He's meeting her at the church? Just the two of them?"

"Yes," said Maire. "Just father and daughter. I think he wants to talk about the wedding; see if she has everything she needs. Isn't that sweet?"

"Hmmm? Oh yes, very sweet," said Cian, turning abruptly to walk away.

He had forgotten about Maire already.


	10. Evolution of the Heart

_Forgiveness…is not something that happens overnight. It's an evolution of the heart. -_ Sue Monk Kidd

 **Friday, June 20**

 **2:00 PM**

Tom was worried. His wedding was tomorrow; he should have been thinking about that. Two weeks ago it was all he could think about. But two weeks ago Patrick had been whole and Michael had not been chased by men from the north. Ireland was at war, but it had never intruded on his own family before.

Tom had been checking with some of the paper's informants, but no one had seen or heard anything about any unionists from Ulster. They had kept a very low profile, and that was disturbing enough. Why were they in Dublin? Surely not just to beat up unwary citizens. His contacts had promised to keep their eyes and ears open, but so far, nothing. He knew he had a story here, but something in his gut told him it was more than that; it was personal.

He needed to see Michael; he was certain the key lay with what his brother had seen.

Michael was at Murphy's with Patrick, who had been discharged yesterday from the Mater. The two were surrounded by well-wishers, helping Patrick become re-acquainted with the water of life and complimenting him on his rainbow of bruises. Tom caught Michael's eye and beckoned him over to the bar.

"The two Ulster men who were in here last week—had you ever seen them before you followed them from the IRA meeting?" he asked in a low voice.

"No, never. I don't think they'd been around here long. I talked with some of the members, and they couldn't remember ever seeing strangers hanging about before that night I followed them, either."

"Then the trail starts here at the pub." They motioned Colum over.

Colum scratched his beard. "I hadn't ever seen those two before a couple of weeks ago. Noticed them for the same reason you did—they didn't belong. The Saturday you brought your girl in, remember? I've seen one of them a few times since, though."

"Oh, yeah?" Tom said, pretending a calmness he didn't feel. His instincts were urging that this was important; these men had to be in Dublin for a reason. "When?"

"Um…he was in here a couple of times after that…I remember because he seemed to be watching for someone, kept looking around. Oh…wait…the last time he was here was the day after that trouble with Patrick. I remember because Maire was here, all upset, and he went over and talked to her. I chased him off right quick though; he just didn't feel right."

Tom said quickly, "He was talking to Maire? What about?"

"Don't know. Didn't have time to say much," said Colum. I got Maire out of here as soon as I could get off the bar. She'd been drinking a bit too much; I think she was telling him about Patrick, though."

A chill began to work its way up Tom's spine. "Thanks, Colum. My sister can be a bit of an idiot, sometimes. Thanks for watching out for her. Let's go, Michael." He all but dragged his brother from the pub.

They found Maire at home, helping her mother to get ready for some sort of women's planning circle that afternoon. Lady Grantham and Sybil's sisters were coming to help with the finishing touches for the wedding, and they were too busy, she told her brothers loftily, to waste time with the groom and best man.

Tom dragged her out onto the back porch.

"Now, Maire, why don't you tell us about the man you were talking to last week in Murphy's?"

"Wh—what man?" she stammered, but the flush rising suddenly in her face gave her away.

"Maire, this is serious! That man is dangerous! We think he's one of the men who attacked Patrick!"

Michael added, "He's one of the men I followed, an Ulster Red Hand, Maire. Why were you talking to him? What did he say?"

Maire had gone white. "But he was so nice! He can't be the same man. He saw that I was upset, and came over to see if he could help!"

Tom took his sister by the shoulders, and tried to avoid shaking her. "Maire. What. Did. You. Tell. Him?"

She focused on his face and thought. "I-I told him about Patrick. I told him about your wedding. That's all!"

Then she went absolutely still.

"What?" said Tom, a feeling of dread beginning to claw its way up his spine. "What else, Maire?"

"I saw him again," she whispered, her voice so low that her brothers had to lean in to hear her. "He was outside the hospital on Wednesday." Her body began to tremble. I—I think he was waiting for me."

"Oh, God, Maire!" Tom fought the urge to be sick. "What did you tell him then?"

"I told him about how I was so mean to Lord Grantham, and how nice Sybil is. I t-told him that they were meeting each other today at St. Kevin's. Then he just ran away and left me on the sidewalk! Oh, Tom, I'm so sorry! He was so nice! What've I done!" she wailed, and collapsed in her brother's arms.

Tom felt as if a stranger had taken over his body, a stranger who was holding him up and doing the thinking for him…because his brain was a jumble of disjointed thoughts that wouldn't come together. It just didn't make sense.

"Why would the Red Hand care about Lord Grantham?" he asked Michael. "Their targets are Irish republicans, not their own British allies! What could they possibly want with—" he stopped and stared at his brother, as an impossible idea began to insinuate its ugly shape into his mind.

"Michael!" he gasped. "Their enemies are the IRA! What if they want to get at the _IRA_ through Sybil and her father? _What if they're pulling some sort of switch!_ " He stopped, the horror of the possibility nearly overwhelming him. It was brilliant, and totally feasible, and suddenly he knew fear unlike anything he'd ever felt in his life.

"Michael! You need to find some of your IRA comrades and get them over to St. Kevin's—now! He pulled his pocket watch out with a trembling hand. "I don't know how much time we have! Do whatever it takes! Somehow you have to convince them that it's in their best interest to save the British aristocracy!"

Michael took off, leaving Tom and Maire on the porch. "Maire," Tom said harshly, "pull yourself together and get Daniel—he's working down the street at the Reillys'—tell him to bring his crew and meet us at St. Kevin's, now! And then stay here with your ladies' circle. Do _not_ tell Mam or Lady Grantham anything! You have to do this, Maire. This is the only way to make up for your foolishness!"

She nodded, tearfully, and then Tom was off. Unable to stay still long enough to wait for Daniel Ryan and the truck, he began to run toward St. Kevin's. Fractured thoughts knifed through his head—he had to be wrong! They were getting married tomorrow! God would not let something happen to her after they had waited so long; he could not accept that such a thing was possible. He ran for his life, knowing that without Sybil, life would be meaningless.

He stopped near an alley and lost the contents of his stomach into a rubbish bin. Ignoring the disgusted glare of a woman walking by, he swiped his hand over his mouth and pressed on, his feet keeping up a rhythm in his brain…Sybil…Sybil…

 **2:15 PM**

Robert Crawley walked up the path and hesitated before entering St. Kevin's Roman Catholic Church. His feet just didn't want to move him an inch further. He had been in a Catholic church one time before in his life, and the experience had left him with no desire to ever do it again.

Sitting awkwardly in the pew he had watched furtively as the parishioners stood, knelt, stood, knelt again, chanted, and prayed. Then they had all lined up and filed like automatons to the front of the church—and stuck out their tongues. He had just absorbed that odd behavior when the priest had placed something on each tongue and made a mysterious sign, before moving on and then releasing them to their seats for some more kneeling and chanting.

During the mass, which was in Latin—did these people even understand Latin?—the priest had wandered by, swinging an urn-like container back and forth over everyone. The odor emanating from the odd vessel was reminiscent of opium dens he had seen during his days as a soldier. Probably to keep his flock docile.

Robert took a deep breath and forced himself to move forward toward the huge ornate door leading into the back of the church. As he stepped inside the nave from the dark vestibule, the quiet beauty of the place stole his breath. Rather than the dark, forbidding cavern he had expected, the three huge stained glass windows beneath a sky blue dome over the sanctuary invited the light in and showered the church with color.

The benches were a warm wood, accented by the red leather kneelers, and the aisle that he and Sybil would walk was a simple, light polished wood. In the presence of such calm beauty, his anxiety drained away and he felt humbled.

As Sybil stood and turned to greet her father from where she had been sitting in the front pew, the light caught her and bathed her face in glorious colors. She was smiling, the gentle, happy smile of a woman who knew her place in the world. Robert had never seen his daughter look so… _sure,_ not even when she and Branson had announced their intentions, and it filled him with pride and melancholy at the same time.

Suddenly and without warning, he experienced an epiphany. Hard as it was, letting her go had been the right thing to do, and being a part of her journey would assure that she would never completely leave him. It might even help to ease the ache in his heart at losing her. He did not fully understand what was happening, but Robert Crawley, seventh Earl of Grantham, was undergoing an evolution of the heart that would change him forever.

 **2:30 PM**

The Branson women and Cora were gathered in the tiny sitting room, finalizing the last minute stitching and other details for the wedding tomorrow. Upon hearing that Lady Grantham had helped to judge the Downton Flower Show each year, Claire had put Cora in charge of the bouquets and floral arrangements. Mary and Edith had been sent back to the Shelbourne to fetch the ribbon and fabric they had bought on their excursion with Sybil earlier that week. Cora was glad to be rid of them for awhile; they were still embarrassingly stiff with Tom's family.

Bernadette and Maire had been assigned to help her, but so far they hadn't been much help. Bernadette was so shy, and what in heaven's name was wrong with that Maire girl? She'd had plenty to say to Robert the night of the dinner; now she was staring at the floor and hadn't said a word! Maybe she was just ashamed of her behavior.

"Kathleen! Pay attention to that lace! I taught you better than that!"

Kathleen snapped her eyes back to her piecework, blushing. It was true; she had been staring. Goggling, actually. It was typical of her mother to notice. She couldn't help it—The Countess of Grantham was just so _glorious._

She wore a blue satin sheath dress with a floral applique running from neckline to hem, and a charming loose jacket in orange crepe. It was probably her idea of a simple day ensemble, but it was the most beautiful outfit Kathleen had ever seen. She wanted desperately to touch it, but from the way her mother was giving her the eye she was afraid she might lose a hand if she tried.

Cora knew that the youngest Branson girl was having difficulty in looking away, and she guessed the reason. Why, oh why, hadn't she packed more sensibly for this trip? She did have simpler day dresses, after all.

She had known that her wardrobe would stand out when she had ordered it packed, but at the time she had not cared so much. At the time she had not met Claire Branson. Now she wanted Claire and her daughters to accept her, to think well of her.

And wasn't that amusing? She, Lady Grantham, wanted to fit in with a working class Irish family, when two weeks ago she had been dreading this trip and wishing that she did not have to meet them at all!

The change was not because of Sybil. It was Claire herself. Cora had been humbled by the indomitable spirit of Tom's mother, had felt _connected_ with her as she had not with any of her society friends.

Claire was different in every way imaginable from her; her upbringing, her challenges, her religion. Against impossible odds she had raised her children to think for themselves, to be self-reliant.

Whereas, the Crawley girls had been raised to be beautiful, graceful and decorative. They would marry well, have well-behaved children—not too many, mind you—and carry on the traditions that had kept the British aristocracy in power for centuries.

Until the Great War. Until Sybil had rebelled against the constraints of her class and gone off to be useful, to do real work. Until Claire Branson's son, too intelligent to be bound by class expectations, had come into their lives and changed everything.

Maybe it had been inevitable. Sybil had American blood running through her veins, after all. Perhaps it was Cora's fault, after all, for contributing the genes that had propelled her youngest daughter to shed the trappings of wealth and privilege and set out on the path that would someday lead them to this small sitting room in a working class Irish home.

Cora found that she hoped it _was_ her fault. She sat up straight, smiled brightly at Kathleen Branson, and picked up the flowers that were her responsibility for Sybil's wedding. Flowers, she knew. She had judged flowers for years, and these would be the best arrangements that an Irish garden could produce. She owed it to herself…and to the family.

 **2:45 PM**

The Red Hand brigade had been stationed just across the street from St. Kevin's Church all day, keeping to the shadows and separate from each other. It would not do to attract attention by loitering, and groups of young men were suspect in these times. When the Earl and his daughter had entered the church, Cian and Eoghan had silently taken position just inside the darkened vestibule.

The plan was simple. They would wait until the two began their exit down the long aisle. Cian would play the part of a new parishioner who wanted information on arranging his wedding in this church. He would move forward and engage them in conversation while Eoghan stepped outside and signalled the others.

Overpowering a soft middle-aged man and a girl would be child's play, especially with the element of surprise as their ally, and they had come armed with everything they needed. The handguns they all carried would be used only to ensure obedience from their captives long enough to secure them with rope and gags. Then they would be wrapped in blankets and carried out the side door and into the waiting motor. Silent, quick, and effective. In broad daylight—just ordinary workmen about their business.

Cian's plan had been accepted eagerly by the other conspirators. They were tired of hiding in plain sight, tired of these republicans and their insolent assumption that home rule was a certainty. Sick of Sinn Féin and the IRA, of these papist nationalists who wanted Ireland to be ruled from Rome. It was time to make their mark and go home. All the spying, all the plotting and moving from place to place to avoid discovery, all the hiding in dark, dank corners of Dublin was about to pay off.

The turning point had been the girl Maire. When she had blubbered out her story to Cian in the pub, a thrill had arced through him at his unbelievable luck. This was what they had been waiting for! A high ranking member of the British aristocracy, in Dublin for the wedding of his daughter to a Catholic republican? Ludicrous!

He couldn't have made up a better story than this in a hundred years. Wouldn't the IRA naturally be incensed at such an incursion by this English lord—to them the arrogant symbol of centuries of oppression? Wouldn't they want to send a message that would be heard across the length and breadth of England?

The assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand had precipitated the Great War. It was ironic that the disappearance of a British peer and his innocent daughter on the eve of her wedding might this time act as the catalyst to end another war.

When their bodies were found with documents claiming responsibility by the IRA, the wrath of an empire would be brought down on the Irish Republican Army, destroying it forever. The dangerous idea of home rule would vanish into history, leaving Ireland safe in British hands.

No one would ever know the part their small brigade had played, no one would suspect Ulster Unionists of committing such a heinous crime against their own allies. It was perfect, and although he would never receive recognition for his actions, perhaps when this was over Cian O'Neill could finally find peace.


	11. Everything Goes to Hell

_When everything goes to hell, the people who stand by you without flinching—they are your family. -_ Jim Butcher

 **Friday, June 20**

 **2:45 PM**

Father and daughter sat together at the front of the church, and for awhile neither said anything, allowing the peace of the building to settle around them. Then Robert spoke, softly.

"I'm sorry, Sybil."

She looked startled and a little alarmed. "For what, Papa?"

"For everything. For trying to force you to be something you are not. For making appearances count for more than people. He paused, took a deep breath. "For judging Branson by his background rather than trying to see his worth."

He stopped to clear his throat.

"It's all right, Papa—"

"No, let me finish! I believe strongly in the values and ideals of the aristocracy, in the standards of the peerage. I wanted that life for you…I could not understand how you could reject it. But that is _my_ life; those are _my_ ideals. I did not allow myself to see that the world I love is not the only way to live an honorable, productive life.

"Sybil darling, you have chosen the life that is right for you, and others are the better for it. I can see that now. I never appreciated your nursing; I thought it beneath you, until I saw you save that young man's life. You saved his life, Sybil! Do you understand how special that is? How important you are to these people?"

He glanced at his daughter. Sybil was silent, tears running unchecked down her cheeks. She had hoped that Papa had suggested this meeting to mend fences, to come to some sort of compromise about her marriage to Tom. But she had never expected this! She honestly had not thought her father capable of this depth of thought, so mired was he in centuries of class prejudice.

"Oh, Papa! I do love you!" she whispered.

Robert Crawley shook himself at her words, looking around the church in some embarrassment, and tried to recover some of his decorum, now that the things that needed to be said had been said.

"Now, then, what will we be doing tomorrow? How much bowing and kneeling will I be forced to endure to make this thing happen? I certainly hope Branson knows what to wear! And really—how many papist statues do they need behind that altar there!"

Sybil laughed. Papa was still Papa…this change of heart was very difficult for him—his newborn acceptance certainly would not alter everything that had been bred into the man sitting next to her! And she realized that she was grateful for that. Small steps were best.

 **3:00 PM**

Robert Crawley rose at last, and extended his arm to Sybil. He was ready for tomorrow. The wedding would be all she had wanted for herself and Branson, which was to say that they would meet at the altar, exchange their vows, and be declared man and wife in front of both of their families. All the rest was window dressing, meant to satisfy church doctrine and the eager audience.

Sybil had told her father that at one time she and Tom had considered eloping to Scotland, back in the Downton days before they had declared their intentions to her family. At different times they had considered a hand-fasting ceremony or a civil ceremony at the Ripon town hall, but in the end Sybil wanted to honor Tom's faith and be married in Dublin, in a Catholic Church.

"I don't much care about all that, Papa," she said earnestly to him now as they stood looking at the altar. I'm not sure if a priest or a vicar knows any more about God than I do, really, but it's important to Tom, and his happiness is important to me. I love him, so very, very much."

Robert remembered with some shame his insistence that Catholics were somehow not truly Christian, what with all the rituals and idols and incense. It was not the way he had been raised to worship, but who was to say that his way was better? The petty differences between two Christian faiths were what was causing much of the trouble between Ireland and England, when you came right down to it.

Maybe Sybil had the right idea after all. Did priests or vicars have the inside track on what God was thinking, what He wanted for His people? Robert was pretty sure that God would better appreciate her willingness to give up everything, even her Anglican upbringing, to honor the man she loved. If more people acted selflessly like his daughter, maybe England and Ireland would not be so much at odds with each other. Maybe both countries would not be embroiled in yet another endless war of misunderstanding.

Father and daughter embraced and then turned to make their way down the long aisle of St. Kevin's. It was a reversal of the trip they would make together tomorrow, when he was to give his youngest daughter into the loving care of another man. His throat tightened. He still wasn't sure he could do this.

 **3:05 PM**

Cian tensed, watching them walk toward him where he waited in the shadowy alcove. This was it. This was the moment they had planned for, the reason they were here. A few more seconds and there would be no turning back. He felt fiercely proud to be a son of Ulster, a small piece in the machine that would ultimately reunite Ireland under the British flag. He straightened and walked forward into the back of the church.

Robert and Sybil Crawley neared the last row of pews and turned once more to admire the rainbow of light pouring from the three huge stained glass windows, each sensing the presence of a power greater than themselves on this holy site. Tomorrow, Sybil would stand in that presence with Tom Branson, and become his wife.

"Excuse me?" said a voice behind them. Startled, they turned to look at the young man, a bit disappointed that someone had intruded on the peace of this place and interrupted their time together. Where had he come from?

"Yes?" said Lord Grantham politely. But Cian O'Neill was not looking at him. His eyes were fixed on the earl's daughter, and he was suddenly frozen in place, a look of utter shock on his face.

 _She looked like Emily!_

 **3:10 PM**

Eoghan stepped into the nave. The others were on their way across the street. It was beginning…but what the hell was wrong with his cousin? He was just standing there staring, saying nothing! He was going to spook them, damn it!

"Cian!" he hissed.

But Cian was gone. Whether it was the stress he had been under as team leader or a greater power at work, something had snapped irretrievably within his mind, and he was no longer standing inside St. Kevin's Roman Catholic church, in Dublin. He was back home in Belfast, waiting in the back of St. Thomas' Anglican Church and gazing at the love of his life.

 _She was alive!_ Emily was alive! She was staring back at him as if she didn't know him, and he knew that she was seeing what he had been for three years…an empty shell, a ghost. The joy that coursed through him at finding her alive rocked him and left him overwhelmed and confused.

How could this be? He had seen her die! He had been outside waiting for her when the bomb set by the Provisionals had gone off! No one in the vicinity could have survived that blast—no one. But here she was, standing right in front of him—alive and well and more beautiful than ever.

He felt a surging anger at those who had told him she was dead. Three years of their life together gone, wasted in grief and hate, when he should have been searching for her. Should have believed that she'd never leave him, would always find him. And here she was, right where she was supposed to be.

His broken mind searched frantically for an answer, and desperation supplied one. He had dreamt the last three years…it was that simple. Fallen asleep waiting for her, and dreamed it all. The Red Hand, the IRA, Dublin…all of it; none of that was real. The truth was right in front of him. _Emily_. Elation and relief surged through him.

"Cian!" a voice hissed at him out of the shadows, and he jerked, remembering. The church was about to be bombed! Somehow, he must have been given the vision in his dreams; God had given him the chance to save Emily and her father! He had to get them out, now!

He stepped up to the couple who were staring apprehensively at him. "We have to go!" he croaked, fear seizing his throat. "You're not safe! They're going to kill you!"

 **3:15 PM**

Lord Grantham was an earl, an aristocrat, and as such accustomed to a life of privilege and ease, but he had been trained as a soldier. He glimpsed the shadowy figures gathering at the back of the church, and he knew real fear in a man's eyes when he saw it. He did not stop to question, grabbing Sybil by the arm and turning to hustle her toward the sanctuary. The stranger, looking back anxiously, began to follow.

"Cian! What the hell!" As the members of the Red Hand brigade began to congregate in the back of the nave, Eoghan stepped out of the shadows, a revolver in his hand. "Get out of the way, Cian!" Their targets were nearly to the center of the long aisle, almost out of range. His cousin was losing it, and the whole plan was unraveling!

Cian turned to face him, a perplexed look on his face. "No, Eoghan! Emily's alive! We have to get out of here before the bomb goes off! We can still save her!"

Rage twisted his cousin's features. They were getting away! "Cian! Godamnit, _move!_ " he screamed in frustration, raised the gun and fired, directly at Sybil.

 **3:20 PM**

At the report of the handgun, chaos broke out in the church. As the remaining Ulster unionists moved to aid Eoghan, other men suddenly poured in behind them. Hand-to-hand fighting ensued as Michael Branson and six more IRA soldiers engaged the Red Hand brigade, who were caught by surprise and unable to draw their weapons. Daniel Ryan and three of his work crew ran in from the side door and joined the fray.

Tom Branson had come in through the priest's entrance behind the sanctuary. He had just reached the sacristy and was bent over, trying to catch his breath, when he heard the shot. His heart stopped, breath catching in his throat. He raced on into the sanctuary, and into war. Bodies struggled at the back of the church, locked in desperate combat, resolve etched on uncompromising faces. His eyes searched desperately but he could not find Sybil in the chaos.

Several men were lying on the floor, moaning or unconscious. He saw Daniel—Daniel!—employ a right upper cut that would have done a pugilist proud to the jaw of a much larger opponent. The man collapsed like a sack of potatoes, and did not move again. Rubbing his knuckles, Daniel turned to the next opponent, a look of staunch determination on his rugged face.

Tom felt as if time had been suspended; everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. A man stood in the aisle near the back of the church, holding a smoking revolver in his hand, impossibly far away. It was one of the men from the pub, he realized. Somehow, calling upon a strength that he didn't know he possessed, he shook off his shock and fear and crossed the distance, throwing himself in fury at the arm holding the gun. Too late, he knew, his despair a tangible thing…too late.

To his surprise, the Ulsterman seemed unaware of his presence. He gave up the weapon easily, allowing Tom to take it from his slack hand without effort. The man was staring straight ahead, oblivious to the nightmare around him. His face was contorted in shock, eyes fixed in horror on the middle of the aisle.

Tom followed his gaze and found Lord Grantham, kneeling over a form that was much too still. Oh God, no! He forced his feet to move, to carry him to the small group clustered around a body underneath which a stream of red was pooling, staining the wood floor.

Sybil looked up at him, her eyes wet. Her father knelt beside her looking down at Cian O'Neill, whose head rested in her lap. Cian's puzzled blue eyes darted desperately around until they found Sybil's face, and an impossibly sweet smile lit his features, erasing the look of pain caused by the terrible wound in his abdomen and making him seem much younger than his thirty-one years.

"You're safe," he breathed, "safe."

"Don't talk," she said softly. Just lie still. Everything will be all right." He clutched her hand like a child, and closed his eyes.

Tom took Sybil's free hand and brought it to his lips. "I thought I'd lost you," he whispered in a trembling voice. "I thought I'd…oh, Sybil!" He closed his eyes and let the tears come.

Robert looked at Tom Branson, at this young man who loved his daughter more than life itself, and said to him, "This man saved Sybil. He warned us; jumped in front of that killer and took the bullet. We owe him our lives."

Sybil turned back to Cian. "And it's cost him his own," she said sadly. "He can't survive this injury."

Cian opened his eyes again. They found Sybil's face once more and he began whispering, so softly that she was forced to bend low to hear him.

"Don't be…sad…Em…We'll…be…fine now. Every…thing…all right…I…love y…" His eyes grew wide; his breath hitched. Then Cian sighed, a soft exhalation of surrender, and died in his Emily's arms.

Lord Grantham stood up slowly. He looked around unbelievingly at the battlefield that had been a peaceful house of God only minutes ago. His gaze turned to Michael Branson, to Daniel Ryan, and then rested on the violent-looking men who had come with them, who did not know him but had fought to protect him.

The fighting had ended. Daniel's workmen and the IRA soldiers were herding the battered attackers toward the door and the late arriving RIC constables. Michael stood guard over the body of Cian O'Neill, his grim expression demonstrating a new maturity in the aftermath of a danger that had proven all too real. In a matter of minutes, Michael Branson had grown up.

Robert turned back and his eyes found Sybil, now enfolded in Tom's arms. Her head was resting on his chest and he was murmuring softly as he cradled her, moving her gently away from the body on the floor, providing strength and security and infinite love. He really was an exceptional young man, Robert thought, and wondered vaguely…why had it been so difficult to call him Tom?

Robert Crawley did not understand who these men were who had wanted to harm him and his daughter, but he finally understood one thing. When everything went to hell, the people who stood by you without flinching, who gave everything they had for you—they were your family.


	12. It's in the Details

_Look, it comes down to whether or not you love me. That's all…that's it. The rest is detail._ \- Julian Fellowes

 **Saturday, June 21**

 **St. Kevin's Catholic Church**

 **3:00 PM**

Sybil stood at the back of the church, holding tightly to her father's arm and fighting off a feeling of nausea. She wasn't sure if it was due to wedding day jitters or the memory of the violence that had taken place right here only the day before, but her stomach roiled and she wished she hadn't eaten the sweet roll foisted on her by her future mother-in-law that morning. It was in grave danger of coming back up.

It was only the grip she had on her father that kept her from running out of St. Kevin's. That, and the knowledge that Tom waited for her at the front of the church. He was there now, she felt it—as he had always been there and always would be, and nothing on earth was going to keep her from walking up that cursed aisle and becoming Mrs. Branson. Not fatigue, or nausea, not even this ridiculous heavy horseshoe that she carried in her basket of flowers.

The horseshoe, along with the three spoonfuls of porridge and salt that she and Tom had been ordered to swallow that morning, was to ward off evil, Claire Branson had informed her solemnly.

"And you two certainly seem to attract evil," she added darkly, "so eat!"

Combined with the sweet roll, she was afraid that evil might very well take the form of the bride losing her stomach at the altar. And she'd most likely drop the horseshoe on her foot. But Claire was not leaving a single detail to chance, and there was no getting around Claire Branson. So she and Tom had bravely forced the salty porridge down…he with pitiful gagging noises that had been ignored by his mother. And the horseshoe was safely hidden under her flowers. Evil at bay.

She had had little sleep last night. There had been no wedding rehearsal due to the hours spent with the RIC, sorting out the details of the incredible attack and rescue. She had repeated her part of the story over and over, and still had difficulty accepting that it had happened. She knew that her father, Tom, Michael, and Daniel had experienced the same exhausting procedure; the repetition was necessary because the story was just so hard to believe.

The Ulster Unionist brigade had refused to talk. Every one of them had sat sullen and silent through their interrogation—except for Eoghan McAllister.

Eoghan was a shattered man. He might have endured the failure of the conspiracy, but the knowledge that he had shot and killed his own cousin had proven too much for him, and he had broken down and confessed the whole plot to the constabulary, eyes haunted and voice a dull and bitter monotone. To avoid retribution from his co-conspirators, he was being kept separately from the rest at Kilmainham Gaol, on suicide watch.

The RIC had had a great deal of trouble believing that the heroes of this particular altercation had been the Irish Republican Army. They had attempted to arrest Michael and his allies along with the men from Ulster without learning any of the details—of course it was the right thing to do. The very idea that the IRA—those hooligans—had saved a high-ranking member of the British peerage was just ridiculous! There had to be some mistake.

But there was no mistake. Tom had notified his newspaper, and between his and Lord Grantham's accounts and fear of the news getting out that the RIC were bullying the men who had saved the day, the constabulary had backed off. There were no handshakes or slaps on the back, and they all knew that this was a temporary truce, but for now the IRA were untouchable, the champions of the hour. To the RIC, it was beyong galling.

 _The Evening Herald_ was determined to make the most of this story; it was the best they'd had in years. And it was all down to their newest reporter, Tom Branson. He'd had the idea that something was off about the two strangers in their midst, and had followed his hunch to its amazing conclusion in St. Kevin's church. That the proposed victims of the plot were his future wife and father-in-law only made the story that much more sensational. That Branson fellow, it was being whispered around the office, was going places.

As she stood now at the back of St. Kevin's Church waiting for the music that would lead her to her future, Sybil's exhausted memory took her back to the center aisle of the church…was it only yesterday? Kneeling, watching helplessly as that young man breathed his last. He had looked at her with such trust—with _love_ , almost—and it had broken her heart that she was unable to save him. Even after Tom had told her the truth behind his presence in the church, she could only see him as a patient, a soul that she had lost.

Sybil had been astonished to learn that the man who had died in her arms yesterday had not meant to be their savior; instead he was involved in a plot to kill them! She would probably never know what changed his mind; perhaps God was at work. Stranger things happened, after all. She had sensed a connection between herself and the dying man—an odd feeling that he _knew_ her somehow. But of course, that was impossible.

Suddenly the clear notes of "The Lark in the Clear Air" floated into the quiet church, summoning Sybil back to the present. As Daniel's guitar brought the timeless Irish tune to life, she heard Kathleen's sweet soprano, and saw faces turning toward the back of the church in anticipation. She smiled tremulously at her father, who looked at her with tears in his own eyes, and then she kissed his cheek and turned her eyes forward. The exhaustion left her and her mind cleared. She was ready.

 **3:05 PM**

Tom stood at the front of the sanctuary of St. Kevin's Catholic Church, waiting. Waiting was something at which he was very accomplished; he had been waiting for this woman for six years, for most of his adult life, and he would have waited forever if need be. But now when his dreams were about to be realized, it was all closing in on him, crushing him. He could barely breathe; he was going to pass out, probably die, and no one seemed to care. He looked at his best man, standing beside the front pew grinning at him like a loon, and wondered what he'd ever done to deserve such betrayal from his own brother.

His throat was constricted, the tie of his best suit somehow too tight, strangling him. There was a knocking sound in his head—were those his knees, banging together? Everyone was looking at him. Oh Lord, everyone _was_ looking at him! He actually wanted to die at this moment. He was going to collapse right here on the step, embarrass the family and go down in history as the Branson who had failed, not at marriage but at _getting_ married! He looked desperately around for help, and caught the eyes of his mother in the first row.

She was gazing at her first son with love and pride. Her Tom had become everything she had hoped he would be, and so much more. Forced to grow up too soon with the death of his father, he had never lost his spirit of adventure. He had always been a seeker….for truth, for knowledge, for justice. Oh, yes, definitely for justice, she recalled fondly.

As a child he had questioned everything, argued incessantly for what he felt was fair. Not being allowed to hang with the O'Shaunessy boys, she recollected, had sent him on a rant that they both still remembered. The O'Shaunessys now were in jail on and off, for drunken brawling and minor theft usually, but eight year old Tom's argument had been logical, nonetheless. He might have been a solicitor, had he been allowed the chance to continue his education.

But lack of opportunity had not stopped her son, and he had never been afraid of work. Tom had left home at twenty-one to work as a footman for Lawrence Parsons, the 6th Earl of Rosse, in County Offaly. It was the farthest he had ever been from home, four hours by coach, and it had seemed to Claire that he had gone to the ends of the earth. The money he sent home had been a godsend, but she had missed him so terribly.

That posting had been the beginning of his love of motor cars, as the eager, bright young man had been pulled frequently from his duties to fill in for the earl's aging chauffeur. And when a position had opened in the north of England, at a place called Downton Abbey, he had jumped at the chance. Tom had become the chauffeur for Robert Crawley, 7th Earl of Grantham…and had met Lady Sybil Crawley.

Claire Branson caught her son's panicked eyes and winked at him. She knew that he was nervous: he had never sought the limelight and was uncomfortable with all these eyes focused on him as he stood alone at the front of the church. What he didn't know, she thought with some amusement as Kathleen and Daniel took their places, was that his time on center stage was just about over.

As soon as the music began, Claire knew, all eyes would shift to the back of the church where a vision in Irish lace waited to walk down the aisle. It was all about the bride, after all, and this particular bride was going to be the most splendid creature any of them had ever seen. She ought to know, Claire thought with smug satisfaction…she had made the dress.

Daniel strummed the first chord. Kathleen began to sing, "Dear thoughts are in my mind, And my soul soars enchanted…" and sure enough, all eyes shifted to the rear of St. Kevin's, straining to see the bride.

And there she was. The anxiety drained out of Tom Branson and he was left with a sense of wonder and overwhelming gratitude. She was the most beautiful woman in Dublin…no, in the world!…and she loved him. She loved _him_. It left him weak and impossibly happy.

Sybil floated down the aisle on the arm of her father, oblivious to the admiring stares of their guests. Her gaze was clear and bright, and it was fixed on the steady blue eyes of the man who stood waiting at the front of the church.

Tom. The man who had believed in her enough to do battle with her, who had insisted that all that mattered was that she loved him. The music filled her head and found its place in her heart, and she knew that he had been right all along…the rest truly was detail.

 **4:00 PM**

 **Kilmainham Gaol**

Constable James Doyle was in a very bad mood, quite a normal state of affairs for him. This was not what he had signed up for, he grumbled to himself. Not that he'd had much of a choice. He'd been headed for a Birmingham jail cell for the third time in four years, and being posted to Ireland as an RIC prison guard seemed on the surface a much better proposition than being _in_ prison. Or so he'd thought. They'd told him he was chosen because he was Irish.

James Doyle was _not_ Irish, he insisted to anyone who would listen. His great-grandparents had left their ravaged homeland during the famine years, hoping for a better life in England, but life had been hard there, too. He had never understood his parents' yearning for a country that had nearly allowed their ancestors to starve to death, and he hated them for their weakness. He had learned early on that in England to be Irish was to be slightly less than human, so he had tried to obliterate all traces of his heritage, hoping to fit in.

He had not fit in. He was perpetually angry, nasty and vindictive, and a mean drunk. Doyle grew up fending for himself, fighting anyone who crossed him and landing in increasingly serious trouble until he found himself a part of the system. He'd acquired a reputation as a bully, and not a very intelligent one at that, they whispered when they thought he couldn't hear.

He rather enjoyed the notoriety. He hated England and its rigid class system that kept him down, but it was all he had. The RIC position had seemed a reprieve, and it gave him power over those unfortunate enough to come under his tender care.

He found that he hated Ireland even more than England. He knew that this posting to Dublin had been just their way to get rid of a bad apple, and that was fine with him. He had no loyalties. As far as he was concerned they could all go to hell. He had no friends to bid goodbye, and his family was afraid of him. His mother had been the one who reported him to the police, when he'd hit her for answering back.

The usual inmates at Kilmainham Gaol were IRA scum, easy to manage because they understood and respected violence. But yesterday life had become a bit more complicated with the arrest of a gang of unionists from Northern Ireland who had apparently hatched a mad plot to kidnap and kill a couple of British aristocrats.

Doyle had no idea what had driven such a daft idea, and he didn't care. Politics meant nothing to him. If any of these lunatics gave him a problem, he would be delighted to show them the realities of prison life with his fists. James Doyle loved using his fists. It kept him amused in this cesspool, and if people were afraid of him they left him alone.

The cause of his bad humor this time was the one being kept away from the others. Doyle had been assigned to deliver this one's meals and to make sure he didn't harm himself, but he couldn't see any reason for it. Why give him food when he didn't eat anything anyway? He seemed catatonic; just stared into space with a glazed look on his face, like a simpleton. Doyle didn't like crazies and idiots; they gave him the willies. This bunch were probably all going to be shot, anyway…what was the point of wasting food and space on them?

He shambled down the dark corridor leading to the solitary prisoner's cell. It was protocol to alert another guard when a cell was to be opened, but he ignored the rule. Why bother with that little detail, when the man hadn't moved or spoken once since he'd been given over to Doyle's care last evening? A couple of clips to the side of the head had produced no results, not even the usual satisfaction of hitting him. He sat leaning against the wall hour after hour, empty eyes staring blankly at nothing. Nobody home, Doyle thought contemptuously.

Sighing, he fumbled for the ring of keys and unlocked the door, looking down to put them back on his belt as he walked over the threshold with the tray of food. He was going to have some words with those in charge, he thought peevishly; insist that they at least put him back in the main compound where there was some action. He knew this job was his because no one wanted to work with him, but enough was enough. Some other fool could put up with this. God, he hated this place.

Still muttering to himself, Doyle turned with the tray toward the cot where the prisoner sat silent and unmoving.

He wasn't there.

The utter impossibility of it froze him where he stood, blinking in bewilderment at the empty space.

"What the f—"

An arm snaked around his neck, cutting off the curse and sending the food tray crashing to the floor.


	13. Beginnings and Endings

_Papa, don't be silly...A story has to start somewhere. And then it has to end somewhere. That's the whole point. -_ Catherynne M. Valente

 **Saturday, June 21**

 **St. Kevin's Catholic Church**

 **4:00 PM**

" _De réir an chumhachta a thug Críost as neamh, is féidir leat grá liom. Mar a leanann an ghrian a chúrsa, is féidir leat leanúint ormsa. Mar solas don tsúil, mar aran ar an ocras, mar áthas ar an gcroí,_ _D'fhéadfá a bheith i láthair liomsa, Ós rud é gur breá liom, nuair a thagann an bás chun cuid a thabhairt dúinn."_

"By the power that Christ brought from heaven, mayst thou love me. As the sun follows its course, mayst thou follow me. As light to the eye, as bread to the hungry, as joy to the heart, May thy presence be with me, Oh one that I love, 'til death comes to part us asunder."

Tom Branson's trembling fingers slid the simple silver Claddaugh ring onto Sybil's left hand, with the crown facing out. It was done. They were married. She was his, in the eyes of the church and the law, forever.

Sybil barely heard the priest pronounce them man and wife. She was lost in her husband's wonderful eyes, so calm and sure, and she felt a shiver go through her as it occurred to her that she would be looking into those eyes for the rest of her life. Six years ago, she had caught that blue-eyed glance in the mirror of her father's Renault for the first time, and she had felt the same shiver.

Was that when it had happened? Had it been love at first sight? She rather thought it might have been, looking back. She had certainly fought it, though, hadn't she…making his life difficult, putting his job in jeopardy, leaving him in limbo after he declared his love in York. It was a miracle that they were standing here in this moment, truly. She wondered if he was remembering those early days too.

He was not. Tom was wondering when the priest was going to stop talking and get to the part about kissing the bride. They had kissed before, of course, many times, and many of those kisses had been far more passionate than anything that would be allowed in church. But those kisses had been shared with Sybil Crawley. This would be the first time he kissed his _wife._

"You may now kiss the bride." Finally. Holding each other's hands tightly, Tom and Sybil leaned forward and placed their lips together, softly at first, then with growing need and passion, until they were lost in each other and nearly forgot where they were.

A loud wolf whistle brought them abruptly back to the sanctuary of St. Kevin's, and Sybil blushed. _Michael_. Of course. Everyone was laughing, even the priest. Tom squeezed her hand, and they turned to face their families for the first time as Mr. and Mrs. Tom Branson.

Cora was crying, and not caring who saw it. Her baby, her beauty, was married. The first of her girls to leave the nest. Sybil had set the bar high for her sisters, she thought…oh, not by the standards of the aristocracy, of course. Her youngest had made love and equality the rules of the game, throwing down the gauntlet and daring Mary and Edith to follow her. Cora wondered if either of them had it in her, if they would ever look as happy as Sybil did today.

She caught Claire Branson's eyes, and saw that she was crying too. It made her even more proud of her daughter, knowing that Sybil had crossed an insurmountable barrier and forced a fiercely proud Irish family to love her. She knew it hadn't been easy, but that was Sybil.

And it was Tom, too. She looked at her new son-in-law with fondness and wondered if anyone else could have done what he had done. She slanted a look at her husband, pretending not to notice his watery eyes. Tom had brought Robert round, even though her husband would likely never admit it. They were quite a pair, those two…mismatched in every way, but somehow they had found common ground upon which to begin the building of respect. Even if they had been dragged to it by their women, she mused.

At a nod from the priest, Daniel and two of the cousins picked up their guitars and a fiddle and began the lively strains of "Carolan's Concerto." Mary stepped forward and reunited Sybil with her flower basket, muttering under her breath, "Why is there a _horseshoe_ in your bouquet, Syb?"

Sybil grimaced. "Tell you later, it's Irish."

"Well, I figured _that_ , darling. I just wondered if your husband is a blacksmith on top of all his other activities."

"Oh, Mary, do shut up," Sybil said fondly. "Now let me go, I'm a bit busy here." She kissed her sister's cheek and turned to her new husband, eyes shining.

"Ready, Branson?"

"At your service, milady." And she knew he meant it. The devotion in his eyes was blinding, a promise that their love story was just beginning. She was sure that no bride had ever felt quite as cherished as she did at this moment, and she was determined to hold onto this feeling forever. How had she ever deserved this?

Sybil and Tom began their journey down the long aisle. Never taking their eyes off each other, they began to swing their joined hands to the lively music…and suddenly, without plan or discussion, they were dancing. Those who knew Sybil well were not surprised; she had always had a touch of faerie in her…but Tom!

Serious, contemplative Tom was laughing and spinning his new bride down the aisle with all the abandon of a child. No one had known he had it in him, but they all knew why it was happening. He had been freed by the angelic creature at his side, and it was a wonderful thing to see.

Lady Edith Crawley held herself still as they danced by, wondering what it was about Sybil that made her so special. Was it her beauty? Edith knew she wasn't as pretty as her sister, but that wasn't it. Someone like Tom Branson would never have looked at _her_ the way he looked at her sister—because she would not have let him.

She would not even have seen him. Not as a man, and certainly never as a friend. As he had driven them around, it had never entered her mind that a chauffeur's knowledge could extend beyond cranks and oil leaks and gearshifts. That he might have ideas, plans, dreams. Or that he had this rich heritage, so different from hers and yet so interesting…especially to someone like Sybil.

No, it wasn't that Sybil was special, although she was. It was Edith herself. She simply lacked the courage to reach out, as her sister had done, to take a chance on a forbidden friendship and leave everything familiar behind for a love that would last a lifetime and render everything else superfluous. She felt herself beginning to sink into the morass of self-pity that was her normal state of being, and then she stopped on the brink.

No! Who said she lacked the courage? Mary? Pffft! Mary was trapped, even more than she was. Her status as eldest and her need to be perfect were a silken snare that Edith, in her role as the invisible Crawley sister, had been able to avoid, even while lusting for everything Mary had.

Edith knew she had talents. She could write, she could drive, she could _think_ …and she was pretty sure she could learn to drink most men under the table if she put her mind to it, although she didn't think one could actually make a living at that….

Her thoughts drifted. Maybe she could move to Dublin and look for a job as a writer. Tom might help there. Or she could become a chaffeur…that seemed to have worked out well for some people. She giggled at the image of herself in the green uniform and black boots. Or perhaps she could work at Murphy's Pub, and be paid in Guiness. The idea made her smile, and her mind continued to wander. They would be serving beer at the wedding party; she should practice just in case…

"Edith, what on earth are you dreaming about? Come on!" Mary's exasperated voice broke into her reverie and wiped the silly grin off her face instantly. She was startled to see that the guests were filing out behind the bride and groom, chattering to each other about the bride, the dress, the flowers…that kiss. Embarrassed, she rose and followed her sister out of their pew and down the aisle.

The truth was, Mary's thoughts had been as unsettled as her sister's as she watched Sybil and Tom twirl down the aisle, although quite different in nature. She wondered what she would do now without her baby sister to make life interesting. Who would keep Edith and her from killing each other? Who would hold her secrets? Who would preserve the endless Downton dinners from sliding into tedium? Those things had been Sybil's job, and now Sybil was leaving her post. Mary felt desolation gnawing at the edges of her control.

She knew she would never return to Dublin. It was too dangerous, too _different_. Mary did not like different; she was suspicious of it. She had spent a lifetime learning how to fit in, to rule her narrow world, and she revelled in the constancy of it. She knew her place in society, knew how fortunate she was, and had no desire to change anything. Except for that one indiscretion years ago, of course, but that was a small blot on the otherwise serenely painted canvas that was her life.

A canvas from which Sybil had now been painted out. She resented Branson, suddenly more than ever, for having the effrontery to steal Sybil away, to change her country and her name…and to bestow such a look of joy on her sister's face that it almost hurt to look at her. It was like staring at the sun. She felt an emptiness that she had never known before, and fought the urge to scream at them both for changing everything that mattered without her permission.

Of course, none of this showed on her face. She was Lady Mary Crawley, and she would be fine.

Robert held his arm out to Cora and they walked down the aisle behind the bride and groom. His actions were automatic, instinctive; his mind lost in turbulence. He felt as though his heart had been pulled out of his chest and placed pulsing in his hands, and that the slightest move would cause it to stop altogether. He felt it swell with pride, and then contract in the most desolate sorrow, as it beat out a rhythm…she's so happy…she's gone…he's perfect for her…damn him…

If he had known what it would feel like to give his daughter to another man, he might have thought twice about having children at all; the pain was almost overwhelming. But then he remembered a younger Sybil, and he knew he would not have changed a thing. She had brought so much joy to his life…who was he to keep her to himself, to hide her gifts from the world? Trying to do so would have destroyed them both in the end—and anyway, he _had_ tried.

He also knew that it didn't matter a whit how his poor heart felt about it. Somehow when he had not been looking, she had spread her wings and taken flight, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. He could take some solace in the thought that some of her courage and resilience had come from him, but it was cold comfort at this moment in time.

The best he could do was hope that they would someday give birth to a girl, so that Branson could come to understand how it felt to have his own heart shredded. And with that comforting thought, Robert squared his shoulders and joined the others who were waiting outside the church to welcome the new couple…the former Lady Sybil Crawley…and Tom Branson, the luckiest man on earth.

 **4:30 PM**

 **Kilmainham Gaol**

James Doyle bucked and kicked, struggling desperately to pry away the vise-like grip on his throat. He opened his mouth to scream, but the force increased. Bright lights flashed behind his eyes and pain exploded in his head.

He managed one hideous rasping gasp, cut off as the arm bore down, crushing his larynx. His back arched and his feet drummed against the floor, but the pressure was unrelenting and unbearable. He clawed at the arm that held him helpless, unable to accept what was happening. _No!_ his mind screamed. It's not _fair_!

His eyes bulged and lost focus as the strength drained from his arms and legs, hands sliding away from the arm locked around his neck. As his body began to shut down, a strange euphoria replaced the panic and he felt himself drifting away. A second later he went limp in his attacker's arms.

The assailant kept his hold on the ruined throat for a minute more, although he knew it was no longer necessary; deprived of oxygen, the brain had gone into shock. He let the guard slide to the floor, watching with mild interest as his body continued to twitch and quiver for a moment longer. The twitching slowed; the body shuddered a final time and was still.

Eoghan McAllister studied the wide, staring eyes. "A bit surprised to be dead, are we?" he asked conversationally, and then shrugged and knelt to strip off the guard's uniform. He'd probably done the world a favor, he thought; at least the bastard wouldn't be hitting anybody anymore. A sorry ending to a wretched life…Eoghan wondered if there was anyone who would miss him, but he rather doubted it.

He changed into the RIC uniform, grunting in satisfaction at finding a Webley revolver, cigarettes, and matches in the coat pocket. Redressing the guard in the prison overalls, he dragged the body to the cot and propped it up against the wall in a sitting position, mimicking the attitude he himself had affected for so many hours. The irony did not escape him.

Grabbing a roll and a piece of cheese that had fallen from the food tray, he went to the cell door, turning back to survey the scene he had created. The deception ought to buy him some time; it was possible they would not look too closely at the prisoner for awhile. With luck, they might focus their efforts on the missing guard, assuming that he had deserted his post and run off.

"Have a nice day," he said to the late James Doyle, and then he closed the door, locked the cell behind him and walked out of Kilmainham Gaol.

Doyle did not answer. In the silence of the cell he leaned against the wall, empty eyes staring blankly at nothing. Nobody home.


	14. Once upon a Time

_Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering. -_ Nicole Krause

 **Saturday, June 21**

 **7:00 PM**

Sinead Branson O'Connor noted the horseshoe that had been set above the lintel of the doorway into Murphy's pub. Hmmph! It was going to take more than a horsehoe to bring good luck to this marriage! What had her cousin been thinking? Sinead grimaced. Such an embarrassment for Claire! She and Alastar hadn't wanted to come, but like moths to a flame they couldn't stay away.

The sign on the door of the pub proclaimed "CLOSED, Private Party". Only a few guests sat at the bar inside. Music was pouring into the pub and out into the street from the backyard, where local boy Tom Branson was celebrating his wedding to the English aristocrat, Lady Sybil Crawley.

So, where was she? Towing her husband, Sinead crossed to the back doorway of the pub and scanned the crowd in the yard intently.

For those few Branson cousins and neighbors who had not yet met Tom's new wife, expectations ran high. She would be cold, imperious, haughty. She would stand out in the crowd of working class Irish like a daisy in a dung heap. She would look down her fine English nose at them, and judge their clothing and their speech. She would be horrid.

Looking around, Sinead had to admire the scene in the backyard. Lanterns glimmered from the trees, and tables were covered with white cloths and gorgeous floral arrangements. A long table groaned under the weight of the covered dishes placed upon it…colcannon with bacon, shepherd's pie, sausage coddle, black pudding, and boxty surrounded the magnificently iced fruit cake which sat in state in the center. Bernadette's work, of course. Bern was a genius with cakes.

But where was the bride? Sinead looked eagerly for someone who might match the image she had firmly entrenched in her mind, and her eyes narrowed. There. Sitting bolt upright, with that perfect posture that came from spending ones's childhood with governesses, learning to be proper and posh. She had a supercilious look on her admittedly beautiful face, and she was glancing around with apprehension at the guests as if they were odd creatures escaped from the zoo, who might soil her shoes if they got too close.

But wait! She was dressed in impeccable taste, but that wasn't a wedding dress. Not the bride, then—must be a sister. And over there was another one, equally well dressed but a bit less colorful, sitting by herself and holding a pint in her dainty hand as if it were a fine china teacup. God, how many of them _were_ there? Sinead took a moment to feel sorry for Tom. He was doomed.

And then she heard a tinkling of delighted laughter over the music coming from an area set up as a dance floor. Her gaze followed the sound to find a stunning woman adorned in Claire's incomparable Irish lace, tripping giddily from arm to arm in a very bad attempt to execute the steps of…she thought it was supposed to be the Fairy Reel, but it was hard to tell. Sinead's mouth dropped open in astonishment.

 _This_ was Tom's new wife? This merry, exuberant pixie with tears of mirth glimmering on her angelic face as she bravely attempted the steps of the difficult ceili dance? She was receiving more than a little help from at least five eager Branson men, who were falling all over themselves to guide her steps and to tell her what a natural she was. Sinead distinctly heard her cousin Art say with admiration that "sure and you must be a bit Irish, darlin'!"

The girl was simply lovely. Her infectious giggles had even the women smiling in spite of themselves, shaking their heads in benevolent approbation. Sinead's eyes found Tom watching the chaos from the side of the dance area, a look of such tenderness on his handsome face that it erased all doubt that this could be anyone other than Lady Sybil, his new wife. His obvious joy and pride lifted his cousin's spirit and made her feel a bit ashamed of her prejudice and leap to judgement. Sinead relaxed and went to join her family. It looked as if Tom was going to be just fine.

 **7:15 PM**

Eoghan McAllister slouched along the sidewalk, clutching a large container and looking furtively from side to side—before remembering that he was now dressed as a member of the Royal Irish Constabulary and as such had every right to be there. He straightened and arranged his face into the self-important, slightly bored expression that he had seen on the last to inhabit this uniform. Pompous fool. His hand found the revolver in his pocket and a thin smile slid onto his face.

The smile faded. His life was as good as finished, he knew; he could never go home and it was death to stay here. Eoghan had one purpose now, and that was to exact revenge on the people who had forced him to kill his own cousin and betray his brothers. He knew he might not survive this last venture, but if that was to be his fate he would take as many of these deluded papists with him as he could.

None of this was _his_ fault. Republicans, aristocrats— _they_ were to blame. They would pay—all of them—and he knew how to do it. He knew where he would find them all gathered together today. The can of petrol he had commandeered in his guise as a constable would ensure him a warm welcome. He fingered the pack of matches in his pocket, and the smile returned.

An approaching pedestrian, intercepting the smile, shivered and crossed to the opposite side of the street.

 **7: 30 PM**

Sybil stumbled to the edge of the dance area and into Tom's arms, breathing heavily from her ceili lesson. "That was fun!" she gasped. "And they said I was good! But should it be so _exhausting_?"

Tom hid a smile and pulled her into his embrace. His wife was the worst ceili dancer he'd ever seen, but he was _never_ going to tell her so. Besides, he wasn't fond of that sort of dancing himself, so he wouldn't likely be suggesting it as an activity in future. He knew the steps, of course; all true Irishmen did, but he just didn't enjoy it and hadn't had much practice. There weren't many ceilis in England, after all. Besides, it was much more fun to watch Sybil bollux up the dance than to do it himself. It was a joy simply to watch her laugh.

He realized that, of all the things he loved about his wife, it was her laughter that undid him. He had not laughed much in his life before Sybil…not that he had been unhappy, not at all—but life was serious and laughter was a luxury he had seldom allowed himself.

She had changed him. Her fierce determination to be useful was what had attracted him in the first place, and then her kindness had captured his heart. Her courage in defying her whole world to be with him had overwhelmed and bound him to her forever. But it was her ability to laugh…at herself, at him, at the simple things…that had transformed his life. Sybil's ready laughter was a question that he didn't always understand, but it was one that he wanted to spend the rest of his life answering.

He suspected she knew she was not a great dancer, but it didn't matter. She took such joy in the trying that he found himself unable to look away. Her infectious enthusiasm and simple pleasure in the activity had won over everyone in his family who had not already fallen under her spell. Her willingness to fail spectacularly at something so frivolous as Irish dancing was endearing. God, he loved this woman!

He doubted that there would be many opportunities for her to show off her ceili skills in the near future anyway, as he intended to keep her very busy in that huge bed they'd just bought. He cupped her head in his hands and looked into his wife's gorgeous eyes, and heat spread through him. How long was this party going to last, anyway? When could they safely leave and get to the real fun?

"Tom?" said Sybil.

"Mmmm?" he mumbled into her hair.

"I know what you're thinking."

 **8:00 PM**

Patrick was surrounded by young women. They admired his bruises, commiserated with him about his terrible experience, and waited on him hand and foot. He had enjoyed the attention for awhile, but he knew all of them well enough and was becoming rather bored. It still hurt to breathe and walk, and his headaches were just now beginning to subside; he felt as if he were suffocating under their determined ministrations.

He spied Sybil's sister—Lady Edith?—sitting alone across the yard and decided it was time to meet this new relative. She looked safe—and a bit lonely. And she was very pretty. The other one scared him, and he decided to wait until he was stronger for that experience. Making his excuses to his adoring audience, he stretched, stood up with some difficulty, and crossed to her, limping with his cane like an old, arthritic man.

"Patrick Branson, my lady," he said formally, extending a hand. "I believe that we are related, and it makes my heart sing to have such a lovely sister-in-law."

"Oh, I can tell you're Tom's brother," Edith said, smiling, shocking herself as she reached out and took his hand, guiding him to sit beside her. She refrained from telling him that the bruises gave him away. "The charm is obviously a Branson trait. I believe there is a saying about the Irish and something called 'blarney'?"

He grinned at her. She arched her brow and smiled back happily. Edith felt confident, fearless, a feeling entirely alien but one that left her a bit giddy. Maybe it was the company. More likely it was the beer. Whatever, she didn't care. As he said, they were family.

"So," Edith said. "I understand that you were quite the hero to my sister, squiring her around and drying her tears when she was looking for a job."

"Sure and that's true," he answered cheerfully. He gave her a thoroughly Branson grin and added, "And I got her one, didn't I? Went a bit above and beyond for sure," he added, indicating his swollen nose, "but nothing's too good for our Sybil!"

Edith laughed. He was just so darn charming. "And what do you do when you're not sacrificing your body to rescue fair maidens?"

His smile grew wider. "Well, I was between jobs, so to speak, and now it looks as if I'll be a man of leisure for awhile yet!"

Edith looked at him. A brilliant smile lit her face, transforming it and making her suddenly every bit as pretty as her sisters. "Can you drive?"

Patrick blinked. "I can," he said proudly. "Tom taught me." The smile faltered. "I suppose I might go to work for Daniel, making deliveries and such." He did not look overly thrilled at the prospect.

"Well," said Edith. "Have you ever thought of going to England?"

He looked at her, confused. "England?"

"We need a new chauffeur—the last one ran off. And I think it's safe," she added wryly. "Papa doesn't have any daughters your age!"

 **8:30 PM**

Kathleen sat down beside her sister Maire, but did not look at her. The two remained silent for a few minutes, the tension thick between them. They had avoided each other all night, but now it was time for that reckoning.

"You sang beautifully," said Maire, finally.

"Thank you." Kathleen's voice was dismissive, cold. More moments passed, sodden with hostility. Festivity swirled around the two, but went unnoticed in the face of their mutual misery.

Maire broke first. Tears welling in her eyes, she turned to her sister. "Oh, Katy, I'm so sorry!"

And just like that, Kathleen didn't feel so much like yelling at her sister. Damn her for ruining a perfectly good lecture!

Maire was sobbing, quietly. "I know I've been a horrible sister!" she blubbered. "I've said unforgiveable things…I abandoned you…I nearly got Sybil killed!…I've been so stupid…"

Kathleen took her gently in her arms and allowed Maire's head to fall on her shoulder. "Yes, you have." She patted her sister on the back kindly. " _Very_ stupid."

Maire looked at her through brimming eyes, but managed a sarcastic retort. "Don't be so nice to me, Katy! I don't think I can take it!"

"Maire?'

"Yes?"

Kathleen looked into her sister's eyes, her own shining with love and forgiveness.

"All for one…"

Maire sighed happily. "And one for all!"

And suddenly they were both laughing, shaking in helpless relief as they hugged each other fiercely, letting all the heartache and anger of the past weeks drain away into the trampled grass behind Murphy's Pub.

 **10:00 PM**

Tom could feel the excitement building inside him as he stood near the bar and watched his wife work the crowd. It couldn't be much longer now. An Irish party could go on into the wee hours and this one showed no signs of winding down anytime soon, but the bride and groom were expected to leave early and he was counting the minutes until he could whisk Sybil away.

The reception had moved back into the pub now, but it was still going strong and very few had left. Beer was flowing and conversation was loud and spirited. Someone had closed the door to the yard, which was a bit odd; the front door was open, but without a cross breeze it was likely to get a bit stifling soon. He considered going over and reopening the back door, but then shrugged and forgot about it. He hoped not to be here by then, anyway.

He gazed around the crowded room. Was that Mary in the corner, entertaining three young men with tales of…what the hell could Mary be entertaining them with? The thrills of fox hunting? Madame Swann's latest creation? Tom shrugged again. It didn't matter; she seemed to be having fun with her new swains.

He spotted Edith in close conversation with Patrick, and shook his head, amused. If anyone could bring Edith out of her shell, it was his youngest brother. Tom had yet to meet the female who could resist Patrick for long. Edith was shaking her head and laughing at something his brother was saying, looking happier than he had ever seen her. Oh yes, definitely out of her shell.

Lady Grantham was talking earnestly with his mother. Those two had certainly bonded, Tom thought. Would wonders never cease? He wondered if Cora had any idea what a conquest she had made, how astonishing it was that Mam had opened up to someone like her. It was as odd a pairing as he and Sybil were, now that he thought about it, and it made him smile. He'd always liked Cora, and he suspected that she harbored a soft spot for him, too.

His gaze found Lord Grantham, and he sighed. He wasn't sure if he and his father-in-law would ever see eye to eye on anything of importance, but he sensed a definite thaw in the earl since the IRA had saved his bacon yesterday. He chuckled to himself. He had been so wrapped up in Sybil's welfare that he hadn't stopped to think about how the rescue must have messed with Robert Crawley's prejudices. Dinner at Downton Abbey could be quite interesting when he and Sybil vis—

A shot rang through the air.

In the sudden shocked silence, all eyes snapped to the constable standing in the doorway holding a revolver pointed skyward, tendrils of smoke drifting lazily from the barrel and candlelight reflecting off the shiny buttons of his uniform.


	15. Skeleton Dance

Well, this is it! Thanks to my loyal reviewers: KayMKay, Syblane, tammyteresa64, Syblime , JessieBess, and the many guest reviewers and followers who kept my nose to the grindstone. And Elsakatze, the last vignette is for you…I know you've been waiting!

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 _If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance. -_ George Bernard Shaw

 **Saturday, June 21**

 **10:00 PM**

The man in the doorway lowered the barrel of his revolver and nonchalantly aimed it in the direction of the shocked wedding guests, placing a large canister on the floor without taking his eyes off the assembly. A member of the Royal Irish Constabulary by his uniform, but what was he doing here? And why was he pointing a gun at innocent citizens at a wedding party? Even in extreme situations the constabulary never went that far! Had Michael done something to cause the RIC to come down on them?

"This is what is going to happen," said Eoghan McAllister calmly into the silence. "You will not move. The back door has been secured; there is no way out. Be good little republicans, do exactly as you are told, and you won't get hurt."

Not quite true, he thought with grim pleasure. In a few moments he would step outside and bar the remaining door, and this sorry excuse of a tavern would go up in flames with all these happy wedding guests trapped inside. But he was pretty sure they wouldn't cooperate if they knew that.

They gawked at him. Most did not understand why a constable would be threatening them, but Tom had recognized the man immediately as the Ulsterman who had shot his co-conspirator in the church yesterday. The one who had been in this very pub several times in the last few weeks.

He looked for Michael, and their eyes met across the room. His brother had recognized the man too. This was not the RIC; it was something much worse. They knew from yesterday's violence that this man was capable of anything. How had he escaped custody? Where had he gotten another weapon?

Tom felt the familiar sickness creeping up, and tamped it down. He began to edge his way slowly toward Sybil, seated near her mother and Mam. Her eyes were locked on his, round and frightened. She knew the man too, knew what he had done and what he could do.

"Now see here!" Robert Crawley's voice thundered in the room. "We have no argument with the police! This must be some sort of mistake! Please explain yourself, sir!"

"Shut up!" barked Eoghan. "You are all guilty! My cousin would be alive if it weren't for you people. He died trying to save Ireland from the likes of you!" The lights in the pub shone in his eyes, reflecting the insanity in their depths, and Robert blanched, realizing now where he had seen those eyes before. This man had tried to shoot Sybil, had killed one of his own…and he was blaming it all on them?

"It was supposed to be easy!" Eoghan shouted. "All you had to do was follow directions, but you had to play the heroes and now it's all ruined!" He could hear his voice becoming shrill, felt his control slipping away, and willed himself to stay calm. It was almost over. He could do this.

He reached into his pocket with his free hand and felt for the matches. "Now, where's the lovely bride? Ahh, there she is." His eyes glinted with malice as he motioned with the revolver toward Sybil. "Come over here, darlin', and be my helper. Slowly, now. Anyone else who moves will be shot!"

"No, Sybil!" Tom continued to move toward his wife.

"Stop!" Eoghan leveled the gun at him. "Not another step!" Tom stopped where he stood, exerting all his self-control to remain still while everything inside him seethed in helpless anger. "I don't think she wants to see her new husband shot, now does she? How very sad that would be!" He shook his head in mock pity.

Sybil stood up slowly, her hands held out in supplication. No, I don't," she said, her voice trembling. "Please, don't hurt him." She lifted her chin and walked toward Eoghan, ignoring a choked sob from her mother behind her. When she reached him he pulled her close, holding her in front of his body like a shield with his free arm tight around her waist. Sybil kept her eyes on Tom and forced herself to remain still. He was her anchor; his eyes tethered her, held her safe from the cold fear that threatened to sweep her away.

"Now, the groom." He gestured with the gun. "Pick up that can there and pour the stuff all around the edges of the room. Do it!" he warned, raising the revolver and placing the barrel against Sybil's temple, "or you'll be a widower!"

The words chilled Tom to his core and pain nearly paralyzed him at the sight, but he schooled his features, refusing to let Sybil see the terror that threatened to overwhelm him. He realized now what the Ulsterman's plan was, and he sensed that this radical had completely lost his grip on reality. No sane man, whatever his politics, could contemplate such evil.

"Please," he pleaded, "I'll do it. Just…put the gun down!" Eoghan shrugged and removed the barrel of the revolver from Sybil's head, training it instead on Tom. With his wife out of the immediate line of fire, Tom moved slowly to pick up the petrol can, his fevered brain searching for an idea, some way to save them. There was only one.

His eyes met Michael's, a signal passing between the brothers. Tom's muscles tensed as he prepared to rush the madman, knowing that he would almost surely be shot—but it might give Michael time to take the man down. It was their only hope. His mind clung to the desperate truth—he would gladly give up his life to save Sybil from this monster.

He didn't have to.

What happened next would become a part of Branson and Crawley history, told and retold in kitchens and drawing rooms through the generations. It would be magnified and embroidered as all tales are, although the truth was so bizarre it needed no embellishment.

Connor, who had been asleep on his mother's lap, woke up and rubbed his eyes. He gazed curiously around the room at all the silent, frozen adults. Then he grinned widely, slid down and darted over to the man in the uniform with the shiny buttons who was hugging his Aunt Sybil.

"Up, pease!" he said clearly, and tugged on Eoghan McAllister's pantleg. Eoghan goggled down at him.

"Nooo!" screamed Bernadette, and launched herself at her son. "Don't you dare touch my baby!" She clutched at Connor and cannoned into Eoghan and Sybil, knocking them all into the doorway.

The frame shuddered. Sybil's horseshoe wobbled…and then it toppled slowly from its place of honor on the the lintel, falling straight and true to strike the top of Eoghan's skull with an audible thunk. The revolver fell from his nerveless fingers, his eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed silently in a heap in the doorway.

For a long moment everyone gaped foolishly, trying to process what had just happened. Then into the shocked silence came a strident American voice.

"Sorry I'm late," boomed Martha Levinson, from the doorway. "Lord how I loathe that ridiculously long voyage and I thought it would never end, but I just had to be here for at least some of my granddaughter's wedding! Have I missed all the fun? And could someone please remove this man from the doorway? He appears to be quite drunk."

 **10:30 PM**

The wedding party, amazingly, was still going full steam. Unwilling to go home after the frightening intrusion and its shocking conclusion, nearly all of the guests had hung on. Having found their voices, they seemed unable to stop talking about it. Most of them had no idea what the crazed constable had planned to do, and those few who did meant to keep it that way.

The hero of the hour, completely unaware of his role in the drama, had fallen asleep again and been taken home by his exhausted parents. Baby Fiona had slept through the whole thing—something her brother would lord over her for the rest of their lives, though he would remember almost none of it himself.

Eoghan McAllister had regained consciousness with an excruciating headache, to find himself trussed up and guarded by a glowering Michael Branson. He had been hauled away in handcuffs by the real RIC to face multiple charges of attempted murder as well as the killing of a prison guard—offenses that all but guaranteed an appointment with the firing squad. He would never see Ulster again.

Claire Branson had recovered her aplomb, having supervised the replacement of the real hero onto the lintel. One could never be too careful with this sort of thing, she told Tom, and for once he wisely stayed silent on the subject.

The ceili was once again in full swing and Sybil was back in the center of it all, stepping to the Four-Hand Jig. Tom watched her closely, marveling at her courage and resilience. He did hope she was saving some of that energy.

The dance ended, and she slid into a seat next to her husband. "Only one more dance, Tom! Please? Then we can go. I just have to work the anxiety out of my system so I can feel normal again."

Tom nodded. With the vision of Sybil clutched in the fanatical unionist's arms still embedded in his mind, he could deny her nothing. Besides, he understood exactly how she felt. It could have ended so differently. How quickly chance could steal happiness and turn it to tragedy, he thought. If it hadn't been for little Connor, and a mother's fury…and that ridiculous horseshoe…

"So," Martha Levinson broke into his thoughts, taking a seat across from them. "I missed all the important stuff. If I'd been here earlier, that awful man would never have gotten in! I would have spotted him for the thug he was and he would have been taken down! We have gangsters like that in America, and we know how to handle them. But I'm here now, so we can move on to the next step…"

"Next step?" asked Sybil. "And what is that, Granny?"

"Why, your flat, of course! I'm going to take charge of finding you the best flat in Dublin, and I won't take no for an answer!"

Sybil looked at Tom. "Oh dear," she said weakly.

Tom threw up his hands and laughed. "Well, darling, it seems that normal just isn't in the cards for us!" They could face this battle later, but he didn't hold out much hope of winning the war. Sybil was possessed of two _very_ determined grannies, and now they were his, too.

 **10:45 PM**

Lord Grantham sat by himself, thinking about the events of the last two weeks. Before this trip, he had spent hours agonizing over how to explain away his youngest daughter's bizarre choice of husband. His embarrassment had been so acute, it had almost eclipsed his outrage.

He had avoided social events, worried about the whispers in drawing rooms…"did you hear? His daughter ran off with the chauffeur!"…"probably in the family way, _so_ unfortunate!"…"Not so surprising, you know he married an American,"…"Always thought they were hiding a skeleton in the closet…"

Away from Downton, from the drawing rooms and the salons, Sybil's choice just didn't seem so jarring anymore. Maybe it had taken coming here, meeting people who were just that…people…human beings not so different from himself, with lives and loves and opinions. People in many ways as prejudiced as he had been, a very short time ago.

Robert chuckled. Opinions. Wasn't that where it had all started? With opinions and ideas that did not fit his notion of the prescribed social mold? He had faced preconceptions and intolerance in Ireland that had made his own narrow-mindedness pale in comparison, and had found acceptance and forgiveness as well.

Robert Crawley had to admit that he had had more experience of the world in the last two weeks than in his entire life as the Earl of Grantham. He had nearly been kidnapped as a political statement. He had been rescued by people upon whom he had previously showered contempt…when he was safely ensconced in another life, another country.

He had observed firsthand how it felt to live in the shadow of war. And he had seen the strength of people who were forced to make choices that had been inconceivable to him before. Had seen their strength, and their honor.

Along the way he had learned things about family and class status and human worth. Even Tom's sister Maire had apologized to him, which he imagined had taken a great deal of courage for that little firebrand. He suspected that she might actually be more like him than anyone else in her family, when all was said. He was going home richer than he had been when he first set his reluctant feet on Irish soil. And he would be back. Willingly, next time.

"Papa!" Sybil bounced over and dragged him to his feet. "Come on, I'm going to teach you the Haymaker's Jig!"

Lord Grantham sighed. He knew he wasn't getting out of this. He allowed her to tow him toward the chaos…and then he spied Tom, standing off to the side watching and trying unsuccessfully to hide his laughter. Odd…he hadn't seen the man dance all night. Robert narrowed his eyes. Well, two could play at that game. If he had to make a fool of himself on the dance floor, he'd be damned if he wasn't taking Branson down with him.

If you couldn't get rid of that skeleton in the closet, he thought grimly, making a beeline for his son-in-law, you might as well make it dance!

 **Sunday, June 22**

 **3:00 AM**

Sybil lay in the huge bed next to her husband, her legs tangled with his and her head resting on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. She should have been exhausted after the tumultuous events of the evening, but she found herself humming with energy. Tom had offered to let her sleep tonight, given everything they'd been through in the last two days, but she could read the hope in his eyes and anyway, sleep was the last thing on her mind.

The past few hours had been both less and more than she had expected. Less painful than she had heard, just a slight pinch of discomfort the first time. And he had been very gentle. Perhaps too gentle, she had thought when it was over. Afterward she'd wondered vaguely, and with a little disappointment, what all the fuss was about.

But that was the first time. After that it had been more. Oh Lord, so much more. Why had she never been told about this part? About the waves of scorching heat that consumed her when their bodies came together? The feeling of ascending into heaven and then falling bonelessly back to earth? She was quite sure she had seen the face of God, and He had winked at her.

She had never known such hunger. The knowledge that her body was no longer her own, that it was captive to desires beyond her imagining, astonished her. Was this what they meant by lust? Was it supposed to be a secret? Or was it different for her somehow, because it was with him?

Whatever it was, she wanted…needed…to feel it again. And again. She began to run her fingers down his chest, watching as his nipples hardened, and then further, feeling him awaken again beneath her and begin to shudder. She felt powerful, knowing that she could do such things to him so easily. She felt brave and intrepid. She was all women, and he was at her mercy.

Lovemaking was like a dance, and Sybil already knew that at this one she _was_ a natural. Moving with him, the steps and the music were inside her. She and Tom were bound now by a power beyond any she had ever known; he was her prisoner, and she his. She thanked God for sending her such a man, and for giving her the courage to embrace such a life.

His hands…oh God, those wonderful hands!…began to move again lightly over her skin, and she quivered and surrendered and melted into him. As he rose to meet her, she left her body behind, lost in the wonder of him…of them…and the language of love filled her soul and took her away.

"Tom." she whispered much later, when she could breathe.

"Mmmm?"

"We don't need a flat."

"No?"

"No. We can just live in this bed."

In the moonlight, his smile was so beautiful it shattered her heart. He flipped her over on her back and rolled on top of her, nibbling her ear so that fresh shivers ran down the length of her body.

"Sure, m' darlin'," he murmured softly…"and isn't that what we're doing?"

And the dance began again.

 _an deireadh_ (the end)

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 **A/N:** Again, thanks to all the reviewers and followers of this story; it has been the most satisfying experience of my writing life. I feel as if I know these characters—I want us all to go to Ireland together and hang out with them at Murphy's, see how their lives are going. Sigh.

As a matter of fact, I'm thinking of doing just that. I may do another story set in the same universe, following Tom's siblings and incorporating the Irish War of Independence. Of course Tom and Sybil will be there; I don't care how long the show's been over or how played out the fandom might be—there's no other couple for me, not yet—but in reading all the T/S fiction out there, it seems that not much has been left undiscovered. Beyond this new idea, if any of you have a prompt that you'd like to see written, please feel free to share it with me, and I'll see about having a go! Thank you again, dear friends!


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